


Endure

by sherlockian4evr



Series: The Dark and the Light [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: - no one we love, - not our boys, Abduction, Aftermath of Torture, Anderson Is a Dick, Angst, Arguments, Bodily Functions, Brotherly feels, Character Death, Dreams, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Case Fic, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Genital Mutilation, Greg worries about Mycroft, Hand Jobs, Hanged Drawn and Quartered, Healing Sexual Encounter, Home at last, Homeless Network, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Meaning of flowers, Mind Palace, Nightmares, Original Character Death(s), Peace Keeper Lestrade, Rape, Rape Recovery, Scold's Bridle, Self recriminations, Sex Fail, Sex isn't everything, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock misses something, Sherlock takes his own case, Sherlock worries about Mycroft, Sibling Bonding, Sometimes even cases don't matter, Tension, The Great Game never happened, Torture, gratuitous Doctor Who reference, john gets shot, mystrade, non-canon AU, pre-Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-03-19 12:05:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 52
Words: 50,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3609468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been broken, his mind splintered in two. One small shard of him is left to accept his bodily torment. The rest has been locked away in his Mind Palace with no hope of escape. Can John free him from his self-made prison and put the pieces back together?</p><p>Beta read by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110">Sherlock1110.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John was safe. That was all that mattered. As for Sherlock, he had endured, was enduring, would not have to endure much longer. If there was any mercy to be had in this universe, not much longer.

At first, he had thought it was the typical scenario. The uninspired "Cooperate or John Watson dies," falling from his abductor's lips had barely made him flinch. After all, he had survived Moriarty and Magnusson. Not without fallout, to be sure. But there it was.

Later, Sherlock would discover that there would be no attempts on his captor's part to manipulate him. No demands that he provide information. Nothing but torture and rape. It had been going on for longer than he could calculate. It was all so simple. Inelegant.

He had pissed someone off.

Sherlock had long quit hoping for rescue. Even his time in Serbia has not been this horrific. No, he was longing for release.

Finally, he had gotten his wish though not in any form that he had expected. It was during another brutal rape that it happened. He had been bent over a table, restraints pulling against his extremities. The beast had been pounding into him, stroking and prodding at Sherlock's wounds. Sherlock's screams were echoing in his own head.

He broke.

Sherlock found himself in a dark room. He was huddled in a corner. Nothing could approach him from behind. There was only the inky darkness in front of him and a tenuous connection to...a shard. A shard of himself that had been left to his captors to torment.

The shard cried, struggled, and screamed at the correct moments.

In the darkness, Sherlock endured.

* * *

John was the first one to reach Sherlock's side. If the detective had been able to observe him, he would have seen fear and horror in the doctor's eyes.

"Jesus. Greg, down here!" John reached out a shaking hand and felt for a pulse at Sherlock's carotid artery. It was weak but it was there. John looked up as the DI crashed into the small room. "Call for an ambulance, he's alive."

Sherlock felt it far away, through his tenuous connection to the shard, as John grasped his hand. He couldn't respond. Only the shard had a voice.

* * *

The ambulance slowed to a stop. "What the fuck!" John's anger skyrocketed impossibility higher as the paramedic team was manhandled from the ambulance and replaced. The doors shut and the acceleration of the ambulance threw him roughly down. John reached for his Sig but one of the men already had him restrained. The name "Mycroft" finally pierced through to his mind and he stopped struggling. The man held him a few moments longer while John forced himself to calm down.

Coolly and professionally, the man asked. "Can I let you up now, Dr. Watson?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." John felt the man's weight lift from him and moved to sit up slowly. The doctor shook himself slightly, then through gritted teeth demanded, "Where are we going?"

The same man spoke up, "We'll be arriving at a secure facility shortly. It is, of course, off the maps. Don't worry doctor. Everything has been seen to. The best medical and psychological care in England is awaiting our arrival."

John didn't waste further words or even a thought on the man. Instead he turned his attention back to Sherlock. They couldn't get to help quickly enough.

* * *

The only thing to pierce the darkness of Sherlock's sanctuary, now prison, were John's urgent words of reassurance and the doctor's quiet pleas. They were distant and far away, heard through the ears of the shard, "You're safe now Sherlock," and "Please come back to us."

Sherlock tried. Oh how he tried. But the darkness was too deep and too _thick_ to allow him to move. Darkness doesn’t have a viscosity. Sherlock was aware of this. Still, he couldn’t force his limbs to move, they were weighted down by the darkness. So the detective stayed in the corner, huddled in on himself, longing to respond. Unable to respond.

* * *

“There’s no bloody reason for it!” John was raging. “No head trauma, no physiological reason for it whatsoever! Why the bloody hell isn’t he responding!”

Mycroft spoke coolly, “You know it’s psychological, John. He’s been through too much this time.” Mycroft’s hand reached involuntarily toward his brother. He stopped it midway there. If Sherlock was aware of his surroundings, he wouldn’t want Mycroft’s comfort. Though, in truth, perhaps the comfort would have been more for Mycroft’s benefit than his brother’s. “We’ll have to give him time.”

“Right.” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Time.” John frowned, looking back toward the room where Sherlock lay, limp and unresponsive. “I’m not sure that all the time in the world will be enough. Christ!” A flash of pain shot through John’s hand as he punched the wall.

An awkward silence fell between the two men. It was finally broken by Mycroft, “Can I rely on you to remain by his side, Doctor? Of all people, you are the one best equipped to reach him.”

John ran his shaking hands through his hair before replying, “Of course I’ll stay. You didn’t really have to ask did you?”

“Unlike my brother, I try to observe the niceties,” Mycroft smiled wanly. “Of course, I’ll make the proper arrangements with your office and I’ll handle the finances.” He paused before continuing, voice shaking, “I _do_ care John. This is the only way he allows me to show it.”

It was the first time that John had seen the “Ice Man” show real emotion. That terrified him more than anything else, even Sherlock’s silence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of rape and torture.

John stepped back into the posh bedroom, the harsh lines of the hospital bed noticeably out of place. His gaze was drawn to the silent form of the detective as he drew near Sherlock’s bedside. The bruising on the younger man’s face had reached the darkest shade it was likely to obtain. John’s gaze fell lower to the bruising on Sherlock’s neck. **Christ.** What had Sherlock been thinking as he was being deprived of life-giving oxygen. Had the bastard that did this stopped just before Sherlock passed out or had he held on until the detective fell headlong into the darkness of near-death? **Fuck.** The bruises were dark and prolific. How many times had Sherlock had to endure the horror of it?

John forced his gaze away and carded shaking hands through his hair. **Stop thinking about this _now_. This won’t help Sherlock.** But what would? He sighed.

The psychiatrist that Mycroft had brought in had prescribed Lorazepam to attempt to treat Sherlock’s symptoms. The detective would have been appalled. He had always refused medication of any kind as a form of “treatment” for his perceived mental maladies, any meddling with the functioning of his mind being out of the question. It was to great an asset to risk.

PTSD with Catatonia. Technically, he presented with the minimum of three symptoms for diagnosis: stupor, mutism, resistance to repositioning. But John just didn’t believe it. The PTSD made since but something just sat wrong with him about the Catatonia. There was something more involved occurring and he would figure it out.

John pulled a chair close to the side of the hospital bed and sat. Not knowing what else to do, he started talking to Sherlock. “I know you’re in there, Sherlock. I need you to come back to me. You’re safe. I won’t leave you.” John continued in this way for the better part of an hour.

John’s words drifted to Sherlock through the shard. They provided an infinitesimal warmth in the otherwise cold room. They were golden words, though faint in their presence. Unbidden, the words formed on Sherlock’s lips, “Help me, John. I don’t know where I am. It’s so dark, so cold. I’m afraid to move.” His word were like a prayer. Knees held tightly to his chest, the detective rocked.

* * *

Mycroft was back. John could tell by the carefully controlled tension in the man’s posture that he had something decidedly unpleasant to impart. “Cut to it, Mycroft.” John’s tone was cold. “Sorry.” Even Mycroft didn’t deserve that, not now.

“No apologies are necessary, Doctor. This is a stressful time. Allowances must be made.” Looking down, Mycroft scuffed the edge of his shoe along the carpet. With a sharp glance at John, he continued, “As you have doubtlessly surmised, I come bearing disturbing information. You may wish to turn down my offer.”

John’s response was gruff, “What offer is that?”

Mycroft locked eyes with John. “We have obtained a video that was made by Sherlock’s captors.” He measured John’s reaction before continuing, “The footage is enlightening but… brutal in its content. Viewing it would give you nightmares to last a lifetime, I assure you. However, it may provide insight into your efforts to help my brother. The choice is yours.” So saying, Mycroft produced a thumb drive.

“We both know that it’s not really a choice,” John replied flatly as he reached out to take the drive.

Mycroft heaved a sigh. “No, John, I suppose not.”

* * *

Mycroft had offered to stay with Sherlock while John viewed the video. John had accepted the offer. Now he found himself sitting in the common room of the suite, shaking. Mycroft was correct, he would have new nightmares after this. John had recognized the moment when Sherlock broke. Up until then, there had been the fire of anger and hatred in his eyes. Then something snapped and the detective’s eyes became devoid of anything _Sherlock_.

Sherlock’s tormenters had recognized the moment as well. That’s when, he had become _Pet_ and the _training_ had begun. John’s stomach heaved as he remembered the images.

**Sherlock being beaten for touching himself in any way, even when it was clear that he was simply curling in upon himself for warmth.**  
**Sherlock being fed by his captors’ hands.**  
**Sherlock’s glorious vocabulary limited to “Please. Sir. Yes, Sir. No, Sir. If it pleases Sir.”**  
**Sherlock being beaten for no reason at all.**  
**Sherlock being raped.**  
  
**And those empty, empty eyes.**


	3. Chapter 3

Once the idea entered his mind, John couldn't dislodge it. It was unsettling, sickening, and it made too damn much sense. Sherlock wasn't suffered from catatonia. John knew what it was.

From where he sat, slouched in his chair by Sherlock's bedside, John spoke, "Sherlock, look at me."

Nothing.

John sat upright and braced himself for what he was about to do. He cleared his throat, then spoke again, "Pet, look at me."

The pale form turned its head and peered in his direction.

John rested his head on the hospital bed mattress in momentary defeat. **Christ. Why did I have to be right.**

Sitting back up, John started talking again, “No. This can’t be all there is.” He shook his head vehemently. “I won’t accept it. I know you’re in there somewhere, Sherlock. I’ll do whatever it takes to get through to you. To help you find your way back. This thing they created is just a martinet, it’s not _you_. You’re so much more.” John’s voice faltered. He reached out and carded his left hand through his friends dark curls. He wanted nothing more than to see a spark in Sherlock’s azure eyes, but there was nothing there.

* * *

In the darkness, Sherlock listened to the echoes of John’s words. He had to try. _For John._ Sherlock’s lips moved in silent entreaty, “I’m here John. I’ll try for you. Don’t give up on me John. Please.”

It was difficult at first. Sherlock had been huddled in the same position for so long that he ached. Slowly, he eased his right arm away from his knees and toward the wall next to him. Reaching. Searching. Feeling his way for obstacles or dangers. He found none.

Sherlock’s breathing hitched. For a moment he was paralyzed with fear.

**Breathe.**

The detective inched his body into the space that he had explored with his arm. He leaned back into the wall and pulled his knees back into his chest. His shoulders shook with the effort that he had expended, but he had done it. He had moved. It was a small accomplishment, but Sherlock would build on it. He would work his way around the room. If he had left himself a way out, he would find it. _If._


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft silently observed John from the door to the bedroom. Across the room, the doctor appeared to be lost in thought as he gazed upon Sherlock’s silent form. His fatigue was obvious in the slump of his shoulders and the slight tremor in his left hand.

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft spoke softly, not wanting to startle the man. “You appear to be tired. Perhaps you should consider getting some rest.”

John looked up to meet Mycroft’s gaze across the hospital bed. “So, we’re back to ‘Dr. Watson’ are we?”

Mycroft gave the barest hint of a smile, “I was merely hoping to engage you in your medical capacity where your well-being is concerned.” He shifted his gaze to Sherlock. “I am more than willing to attend my brother and allow you to take some time to recuperate. You will be of no help at all if you should fall ill."

John was still reluctant to leave the detective’s side. “Have they stopped the Lorazepam,” he asked.

“Just as you requested. You’re discovery proved the pointlessness of the medication.” Mycroft looked down, decidedly uncomfortable. “As I am sure you have observed, addressing Sherlock’s basic needs has been greatly simplified as well. Anyone using _that appellation_ ,” here Mycroft positively spat, “is guaranteed compliance.”

John shook his head, “That’s just what I don’t like, Mycroft. Anyone, any bloody person at all, could order Sherlock to follow and he would do it. He could be taken from us just like that.” John pushed up from the chair and began pacing the room.

“I know, John,” Mycroft agreed, “That is why we shall never leave him on his own. Either you or I shall be with him at all times. Although the staff has been rigorously examined, Sherlock is my brother and I won’t risk that something was missed. Mistakes have been known to occur.”

“So, we’re agreed.” John made it a statement.

Mycroft nodded, “Quite. Now, go get some rest eat a decent meal. Do it for Sherlock.”

* * *

Sherlock had lost all sense of time as he struggled in the darkness. His life was measured in distance gained. It had been unbearably difficult, but he had moved the entire length of one wall. He was huddled in a second corner. Sherlock would rest, but just for a bit.

**Move.**

Once again, Sherlock started the process of feeling his way with his right hand and shifting into the explored space. Feel. Move. Breathe. Feel. Move. Breathe. Feel. Move. Breath.

His hand came into contact with a disruption in the smooth surface of the wall. Hope surged within him, tinged with fear. He felt along the disruption, moving his hand up and down. It was a door. Sherlock’s entire frame froze at the implications. There _was_ a way out. But why had the door remained shut? What had keep the horrors from flooding in? **Locked.**

If Sherlock was going to unlock the door, he would have to move from his current position. Form his _safe_ position with his back against the wall. Anything could attack him from behind. He knew it was illogical. If something had been in the room, it would have come for him long ago. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to move from his position against the wall.

Once again, a silent plea fell from the detective’s lips, “Help me John. I can’t do it. Help me.”

* * *

“Sherlock, I’ve been thinking,” John began. “Yes, I can think, Sherlock.” He took a deep breath “I’ve been saying that you are in there, somewhere. Right? Well, if you can hear me, then you’re probably calling me an idiot for taking so long to figure it out.” He leaned forward. “You’re in that bloody Mind Palace of yours, aren’t you? You found a way to escape there and for some reason you haven’t come back.” John couldn’t help himself, he shouted, “Well it’s bloody well time that you come back, Sherlock!” He calmed himself and added, “I miss you.”

John carded his hands through his sandy hair then continued, “I don’t know if it will help, Sherlock, but if you’re trapped in there, if you’re afraid for some reason, just look for me. I’ll be there for you. Right there, wherever you need me. In your Mind Palace. All you have to do is - _look for me_.”

* * *

_Look for me._

The words came to Sherlock faintly, but they were glorious words. Words full of promise. John’s words. John’s promise. John always kept his promises.

Sherlock shifted his feet beneath him and slowly raised himself to standing, back sliding upwards along the wall. He turned, rolled really, to his right, until his chest leaned against the wall’s smooth surface. The detective had to fight to control his breathing as he reached out, this time with his left hand to search for a lock. To his surprise, his hand encountered a simple bar placed across the door. All he would have to do is lift it from its mount and he would be able to open the door.

Sherlock hesitated. Fear surged through him like something physical, threatening to bring him down to his knees. Then he thought of John. John had said he would be there. All Sherlock had to do was look. Before he could falter again, Sherlock raised the bar blocking his way and opened the door.

Blinding light flooded the room bringing tears to Sherlock’s eyes. There in the brightness, stood John. Sherlock cried out and John took him in his arms. For a moment, there was peace.

It didn’t last, of course.

“Sherlock,” John said, cradling Sherlock’s face in his left hand, “You can’t stay here. You have to leave your Mind Palace. I’m waiting for you.” He held the detective’s gaze intently, urging him to agree.

A small cry escaped Sherlock’s lips as he nodded. Sherlock surfaced.

* * *

A strange sense of duality descended over Sherlock. It felt as though he was himself yet somehow _not_. Suddenly something snapped and he felt as if two pieces had come together to form a whole. His skin felt tight and restrictive. Sherlock opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. There was John, sitting in a chair by his bedside. He tried to call to him but only a small sound escaped his lips.

It must have been enough, because John’s head snapped up. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock tried to speak again, “ _Yes, John. Yes. It’s me. I’m here. I’m back._ ” Still his words failed him. **Why?**

John was standing now, peering deeply into Sherlock’s eyes. “God, it is you.” His voice broke. “ _Sherlock._ ” For the first time in many years, the doctor cried.


	5. Chapter 5

The sight of John crying shifted Sherlock's distress from himself to the other man. He tried to reach for John and speak words of comfort. Once again, he failed. His breathing grew labored as fear distracted him from his concern.

John looked up when he heard the detective's distress. Moving swiftly, he grasped the oxygen line from the wall and worked it in place, hooking the lines over Sherlock's ears to hold it in place and turned it on. Slowly, the Sherlock's breathing slowed and he relaxed. His gaze remained fixed on John.

Wiping the tears from his face, John moved to the head of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

With a look of profound fustration, Sherlock mutely shook his head.

A sense of dread came over John. "Sherlock, can you speak?"

Again, Sherlock shook his head.

John growled low in his throat. "Right. You're not going to like this, but I need to try... Pet can you speak?"

To Sherlock's horror, the words were ripped from his throat. "Yes, Sir." Nausea threatened to overcome him. He closed his eyes and choked it back.

John collapsed in his chair by the bed. "Fuck."

Sherlock's mind had fallen into an endless loop with no escape clause:

**1\. Can't speak on my own.**  
**2\. Responded with contrived response.**  
**3\. Can't move.**  
**4\. Why?**  
**5\. Help me, John.**  
**6\. Goto 1.**

Each iteration increased Sherlock's anxiety.

John noticed his distress. As distasteful as it was, he would use every tool he had at his disposal to help his friend. John jumped up and approached the head of the bed again. He grasped each side of Sherlock's face and gazed steadily into his eyes. "Pet, stop."

Sherlock's mind was jolted from the infinite loop. **Pet. Oh.** But they hadn't been able to touch him. He had been hidden away in his Mind Palace. They had only been able to touch the shard. Unbidden, his first moments after emerging from his Mind Palace flashed through his mind. There had been a sense of duality then then a joining of two seeming pieces into one. He understood.

This time he vomited violently. He couldn't fight it. Sherlock couldn't even lean over the edge of the bed.

John lunged for him at the first wretching sound and guided his head over the bedrail. He made it in time. The doctor held his friend's head while he heaved.

When his stomach had quieted, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to wipe his mouth but it was quite beyond his capabilities. He screamed inside.

With steadying hands, John eased the detective back against his pillow. He removed the slightly askew oxygen line and turned it off. "I agree completely but both of us vomiting won't serve much purpose." John smiled but it didn't reach his eyes.

John rang for assistance in cleaning up the mess then he efficiently cleaned Sherlock's face with a damp flannel. "Drink Pet," he spoke as he pressed a cup of water to the detective's lips.

Sherlock drank, washing the bitterness from his mouth if not his mind. This was insufferable. It would have been better to stay in the darkened room within his Mind Palace. Perhaps his body would have withered away. Now he was trapped. He was a puppet on strings. There was simply no point.

A neatly dressed man entered and removed all signs of Sherlock's upheaval as John waited impatiently. He used the time to think. He was not one to give up. Not when it came to Sherlock. There had to be a way to at least make this easier on the both of them. He got an idea.

"Here's what we are going to do. Listen to me Pet. From now on, you will only answer to Sherlock, never Pet. Not for me. Not for anyone. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

John closed his eyes for a moment. It would be an illusion of normalcy, but at least his stomach wouldn't roll at hearing Pet anymore. "Sherlock, I don't want you to say Sir anymore either."

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. John was _brilliant_. "Yes, John."

The doctor blinked. He hadn't specified _that_. Interesting. It was a bit of autonomy coming through, no matter how small.

Sherlock was inordinately proud of the addition. The feeling of pride didn't last very long. How could it? Puppets couldn't feel pride.


	6. Chapter 6

It was painful bringing Mycroft up to date on Sherlock's condition. It had to be done within the detective's hearing because neither man would leave Sherlock to another's care and most definitely would not leave him alone. 

Sherlock managed to glare at them both for a bit, but he retreated into himself which turned out to be a mistake. Occasionally, whispered words penetrated his thoughts: torture, rape, and conditioning. But that hadn't been  _him_. It had been his body and a tiny shard of his mind but never  _him_!

Sherlock's breathing was growing ragged and his distress was showing on his face.

Mycroft was the first to notice. He moved to his brother's side and took Sherlock's hand with uncharacteristic care. "Sherlock, tell me what is happening. Speak to me."

Sherlock tried, but to everyone's surprise, his voice was still locked away.

John stepped up and repeated Mycroft's words. Sherlock's tongue was released- like a lock. 

He found himself bellowing at the top of his lungs. "They never had me. Never. I didn't let them! I hid away. I gave them my body. I  _know_  what they did to it, but they never had  _me_! How can I be trapped like this?! I should have died." His breathing was laboured and he pounded his head back against his pillow repeatedly, the only freedom of movement he had.

"Sherlock, look at me." John's voice was stern and unwavering. "We'll figure this out. It won't always be like this. I give you my word." John noticed Sherlock's eyes drifting to Mycroft. John turned to follow Sherlock's gaze.

Mycroft was incredibly pale, his lips pressed into the thinnest of lines.

Bloody hell. John moved swiftly to ease Mycroft into a chair. "Mycroft, don't do this. Not here. Not now. Fall apart later." To think, this was the man that John had thought had no feelings. "Call Anthea. She needs to get you out of here. I need to concentrate on Sherlock, yeah?"

Mutely, Mycroft nodded and sent a text with shaky hands.

John returned his attention to Sherlock. He held the detective's hands in his own, rubbing his thumbs over Sherlock's knuckles.

Unnoticed, Anthea collected Mycroft and left John alone with Sherlock.

John thought for a moment. "I know this situation is complete shite, but let's do this. Sherlock, tell me what you want to do."

Sherlock didn't hesitate. Even though he had hidden in his Mind Palace for most of the ordeal, he still felt filthy. "I want a shower."

Reluctantly, John agreed. "Let me see to some things then  you can have your shower." He sent for the nurse, the catheter would have to be removed. When that was done, he gathered some supplies. "Some of your wounds will need covering. They haven't had time to heal enough to risk getting them wet. So... Sherlock, sit up." After awkwardly removing Sherlock's clothing, John went to work covering the worst of the wounds with plastic pads and waterproof tape. He had to direct Sherlock to stand during the process.

When Sherlock was prepared to John's satisfaction, he ordered Sherlock to the bathroom. John adjusted the shower and ordered the detective to step into it.

As Sherlock stepped into the streaming water. He let out a low keening sound. He couldn't bathe himself that would have required touching his own body.

Sherlock felt his knees buckling and could do nothing to stop his descent. John caught him and slowed his fall, bringing Sherlock to rest on the floor of the shower.

John was shaking enough for the both of them. Without thinking, he drew Sherlock into an embrace. "Christ. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I should have thought. I should have known. They wouldn't let you touch yourself. I'm so sorry." John drew back, one hand pressed to the nape of Sherlock's neck. "Let me help you, yeah?"

Sherlock gave John a long slow blink. John took this for agreement. The doctor stood, his wet clothes clinging to him. He reached out and helped Sherlock to his feet.

Sherlock, though frustrated, allowed himself to relax under John's hands. He closed his eyes and allowed John to work.

John used a flannel to lather Sherlock's torso and limbs, being careful of his wounds. He moved Sherlock more directly into the water stream and rinsed him off. After a moment’s hesitation, John used the flannel to clean Sherlock's genitals and arse. He rinsed them as well. Finally, John lathered Sherlock's hair, lingering over the feel of it. He rinsed it and followed with conditioner and a rinse.

Sherlock had managed to enjoy much of the shower. Especially when John washed his hair. He could almost pretend that it was erotic rather than performed out of some twisted necessity. The completion of the shower drove the reality of the situation home.

John turned the water off and ordered Sherlock out of the shower. He toweled off the taller man gently, again avoiding wounds. He removed the waterproof coverings from Sherlock's wounds and started dressing the other man. It was rather like dressing an oversized doll.

John led Sherlock back to his bed and settled him into his covers. For the first time, John was pleased with what he saw.

Sherlock had born up well under John's ministrations. Something about being cared for so intimately had calmed the turmoil in his mind, however temporary. For that, Sherlock was grateful.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock had finally drifted off into sleep, for that John was immensely grateful. The doctor sat slouched in the chair by the other man’s bedside and simply watched as he breathed. John was exhausted in every way imaginable. At least he could put him mind on auto-pilot for a short time and just _exist_. He would try to think how to help Sherlock later.

John blinked as the tentative sound of Mycroft entering the room brought him back to himself. **Since when had Mycroft been tentative about anything?** The doctor wiped his left hand across his eyes and forced himself to sit up properly before addressing the older Holmes. “He’s been asleep for about forty-five minutes.” His voice was hushed as he spoke.

“Then perhaps we should carry our discussion just beyond the doorway?” Mycroft gestured behind him.

Wearily, John rose from his chair and the two men stepped quietly from the room. They could see Sherlock from where they stood, but hopefully their discussion would not disturb the sleeping detective.

“You need rest, John.” Mycroft eyed him critically. “I realize that he only responds well to you. However, I will stay with him while he is sleeping. When he wakes, you will be called immediately.”

Reluctantly, John nodded his agreement. He would just kip on the sofa in this room. If he was needed he would be a shout away.

Mycroft had taken John’s place by Sherlock’s side. With his baby brother asleep and the doctor safely asleep on the sofa in the other room, he was free to let down his defenses. _Sentiment._ It was a weakness as he had tried to tell Sherlock on numerous occasions. Unfortunately, it was a weakness that Mycroft shared with the rest of humanity despite his well-honed skill at hiding it.

There were few individuals that held real estate within his heart: his parents, Sherlock, and in some small way, John Watson. Seeing one of them in this state was more than he was prepared to process, especially his baby brother. The worst part is that it had been his job to protect Sherlock and he had failed miserably.

Mycroft sat forward on the edge of the chair and reached out to take his brother’s hand. “How can you ever forgive me?” He spoke softly, not wanting to wake Sherlock. “I should have found you sooner. What good is all the power of the British Government if I can’t protect you?” No one who knew him, except perhaps now John, would have believed that tears were pooling in Mycroft’s eyes as he contemplated Sherlock’s sleeping form. Truthfully, Mycroft was caught by surprise as he reached up to wipe away the moisture that he found there. “See what you do to me? You have to get better baby brother. I can’t bear to see you like this.” He paused before changing lines of thought. “Your doctor, John Watson, is a good man. I should have understood that better from the beginning. You are fortunate to have such a loyal and caring friend. If ever he needs anything, he will have it. Never fear for his welfare again.” Mycroft stopped speaking, overcome for words.

It was only when he looked up that he realized Sherlock was watching him. Their eyes made a connection. For once, Sherlock accepted all that Mycroft had offered during his heartfelt outpouring. For his part, Mycroft accepted that acceptance. For the first time in years, they understood one another.

Why, Mycroft wondered, had they fought sentiment so hard and why did it take _this_ to bring them back together?


	8. Chapter 8

After they had reached their unspoken understanding, Sherlock had drifted into sleep. Now this. It was the strangest sensation, waking to Mycroft's hand carding through his hair. It felt pleasant and safe as it had when he was a child.

Sherlock's eyes blinked a few times before focusing on his brother. They both managed weak smiles.

"You have slept for six hours." Mycroft removed his hand from his brother's hair. "I imagine that food would be appropriate at this juncture." He sent a quick text to Anthea directing that a tray be brought directly. "Shall we allow John a few more hours of sleep? He was quite exhausted."

Sherlock gave his brother another smile in answer. Though frustrated at his inability to speak, he felt a calm drift over him. He would relish it for as long as it lasted, this respite from anger, fear, and his feelings of helplessness.

Soon, Anthea appeared with a tray that she sat on a hospital table. She rolled it into position over Sherlock's prone form then moved to raise the head of his bed. When she had everything adjusted to her satisfaction, she slipped from the room as quietly as she had entered.

The moment of calm fled as Sherlock realised his helplessness once again.

"Never fear, baby brother. I fed you when you were a toddler. I am sure that I can manage now." A hint of Mycroft's normal sneer had crept into his voice. Oddly, that soothed Sherlock somewhat so he glared at his brother with affection.

"Ah, now that is the Sherlock I have missed." Mycroft spooned some oatmeal toward his brother's mouth which remained closed. "Open up for the pirate ship," Mycroft teased. At the defeated look on his brother's face, he immediately wished that he could take back the words. "You can't, can you?"

The look in Sherlock's eyes was answer enough. "I'm sorry, baby brother." Mycroft swept stray curls back from the detective's forehead.

"What's wrong," came John's tired voice from the doorway. The brothers’ eyes turned to him.

"As we expected, John, Sherlock cannot feed himself. Unexpectedly, neither can I feed him." Mycroft's voice sounded strained.

John pinched his nose then shrugged. "Right. Let's see how I fare." So saying, the doctor took Mycroft's place by Sherlock and offered up a spoonful of oatmeal. Instantly, the detective's mouth came open and John spooned in the bite. "Good. Just like that." He was smiling absurdly at Sherlock whose own mouth twitched into a smile.

They continued on this way for some time until John held the orange juice to the detective's mouth. Something, they would never know what triggered a memory. Not one of Sherlock's but one belonging to the shard.

 _He was hungry. Not I'm on a case hungry but I'm dying please help me hungry. His stomach was an empty pit. Even worse, he was thirsty. He would die of dehydration long before starvation. Then, miraculously, he had been brought food and water. He lunged toward the water only to be kicked away from it. "Pets aren't allowed to touch their food or water. You have to ask someone to help you and they_ might _give you what you ask for." The shard tried for the water again..._

John sat the cup down and grasped the detective's head in his hands as the man thrashed. "Come back to me Sherlock. It’s just a memory. Come back love." He continued urging the other man back to the here and now, never repeating the appellation.

John had been able to call Sherlock back from the memory. He had dried the detective's eyes and, after calming them both down, resumed feeding him. They managed the rest of the meal without incident, though the doctor remained on high alert.

Mycroft looked on, wondering. He knew that the two men had been dancing around their attraction to each other for years. Now John had slipped, calling Sherlock "love". Mycroft pondered, did the doctor even know that he had said it?  **Unlikely.**

If his brother survived this with a good portion of himself intact, there would be time for action. Mycroft negotiated the fates of nations on a daily basis. He could handle these two idiots.


	9. Chapter 9

It was just John and Sherlock again. The doctor sat by his friend's bed and held his hand. "If we could just communicate better, we could solve this." John placed his head on his forearm and let out a long sigh. Suddenly, he felt like a fool. Sherlock  _had_ spoken earlier. All John had had to do was give the order. The thought made his stomach churn with distaste, he despised being forced to give the other man orders, but he would do anything if it would help. "Sherlock, look at me."

In response, the detective opened his eyes and regarded his friend.

John spoke clearly, using his Captain John Watson voice. He would leave no room for doubt in Sherlock's mind that this was an order to be obeyed. "Sherlock, you are going to talk, whenever you need to, whenever you want to, without waiting for permission or an additional order. You will express whatever thoughts you wish to share. You will ask any questions you wish to ask. Do you understand and acknowledge this order?"

Sherlock's eyes grew large with surprise. "Yes, John."

The doctor looked at the other man sceptically and tried a bit of humour. "That can't be all you have to say, not after this long."

Testing, the detective opened his mouth and spoke. "John, my John. Brilliant John. John, John, John... please don't leave me. I would still be in the dark without you. Please. Pl..." He was weeping openly. 

"Christ." John leapt from his chair. "I'm not going anywhere. You know that. I'll stay right here as long as you need me." He pulled Sherlock close and continued murmuring comforting words until the detective calmed. John pulled back slightly. “Better?”

Long slim fingers spasmed against the bedsheets. “I want to move. I need to…”

The words came out in a rush. “Christ. Of course, Sherlock, you can move. You don’t have to wait for me to tell you to do anything! You can move whenever you need to, whenever you want to. Do you hear me!?” John’s heart was in his throat, he wanted this to work so badly.

It wasn’t a surge of motion that greeted the doctor’s words. It was the lifting of an arm and the movement of a hand, as Sherlock embraced his friend and pulled him close again. “Thank you,” he whispered.

As John stood, the detective pushed himself to a sitting position. Sherlock’s body still shook with the after-effects of his tears and he was stiff and sore, but the simple freedom of movement was heady. John held a glass of water to his friend’s lips and Sherlock drank, the cool water soothing away the last of his tremors.

“Sherlock, I want you to hold this glass and drink.” Giving the man direct orders had worked so far. Perhaps, he thought, this would work as well.

The detective’s silver eyes locked with John’s as he took a deep breath and reached toward the glass. His hand froze mid-way to its objective. He was caught between two compulsions, to do as John had ordered and to avoid touching food or drink. “I can’t. It’s too much.”

The distress on Sherlock’s face was heartrending. “Stop. You don’t have to take the glass.” The doctor’s voice was gentle. They both breathed heavily in the wake of the detective’s distress. “Right, it won’t be as easy as that then.” That earned a tentative smile from the tall man. “We’ll figure it out together, yeah?”

The detective shifted uncomfortably, “Can we figure out the loo first?” With the removal of the catheter, the man had been forced to use a bedpan for the duration. Never had the thought of taking a simple piss sounded so appealing.

John smiled a genuine smile for the first time since the entire ordeal began. “Yes we can. Let me lower the bedrail. And for God’s sake, take your time.”

Once the bedrail was lowered, Sherlock shifted so that his legs hung from the bed and stood slowly. He had been out of the bed once before, but this time he felt a modicum of control. The idea that this was what constituted  _freedom_  for the time being was repulsive.  **Pathetic.**

Together, the two men made their way to the loo. The detective had been far too long in bed and John was not prepared to risk Sherlock to a fall.

The toilet was regarded with a long look from the tall man. It was a simple function and one that was far beyond his capabilities at the moment, taking a piss. Sherlock roared with frustration, turned and smashed his fists into the wall. He couldn’t even lower his own pyjama bottoms and pants.

Once again, John came to the rescue. Without a word, he simply reached over and pulled downward, freeing the other man to take care of his bodily functions. “There you go.”

Sherlock pushed himself away from the wall, and turned rather awkwardly back to the toilet. After just a moment’s contemplation, a sly look crossed his face. The tall man leaned forward and placed both hands on the wall on either side of the toilet and simply allowed his urine to fall straight downward into the bowl.  **Fait accompli.**

“Brilliant!” John hadn’t relished the thought of holding Sherlock’s cock while the man took a piss, but he would have done it. This simple solution saved them both the embarrassment. “Your mind is still working in there, then.”

“Apparently.” The detective stood and shook his head. His body was making another demand on him now that he had started the process. Bowing to the inevitable, he turned and sat with his head hanging between his hands. When he was done, he reached out and grasped John’s hand. If it had been anyone else with him, the situation would have been unbearable, but this was John. Without a word, the doctor cleaned him, assisted him to stand, and pulled up his pants and pyjamas bottoms.

Their words were few as Sherlock made his way back to his room. “Not the bed.” He had been silent for so long that he found he was speaking with an economy of words.  **So. My voice is still not my own.**

“Whatever you want, Sherlock. Here,” John adjusted a chair and assisted his friend into its embrace.

The detective sat and closed his eyes. He was so tired, but there was so much to say and he had so many questions. “John…” he began but was cut off by a touch of the doctor’s hand.

John could see the exhaustion in his friend’s face. “Just rest, Sherlock. There will be time to talk later.”

There was one question, though, that the detective had to ask. “Tell me one thing first. What happened to them?”

John’s face hardened and his hands fisted at his sides. “They are very dead, Sherlock. I assure you.” There was one thing that he wanted his friend to understand. “None of them will ever hurt you again.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock sat, John's index finger pressed between his own index fingers. It was their latest attempt to break the conditioning that kept him from touching his own body. They had been sitting, locked in position for several minutes.

At first, the detective's breathing had come hard and ragged simply because he  _knew_ where this was going. As time passed and nothing happened, he was able to calm himself and regulate his breathing. Still John waited.

After what seemed to be an eternity, Sherlock felt the slide of flesh against flesh as his friend slipped his finger free. Abruptly, the pads of the detective's fingers touched together. For a moment, all was well, then chaos quickly descended upon him

_He was cold, so cold. Pet curled up, pulling his knees to his chest and shivered. When the hand pulled him up by his hair, he whined pathetically, dreading what was to come._

_"Hands off, Pet." The man- monster- slammed him face down on the table and held him there._

_Pet went still. He knew what to expect and fighting only made it worse. When other hands moved to bind him in place, confusion overtook him. They never restrained him anymore, so what, he wondered, were they planning._

_"Pets don't touch themselves for any reason, not even to piss." There was the sound of a belt being pulled free then he the man spoke again. "Here's a little something to help you remember." With those words, he methodically began beating the helpless man with the belt. No bodily surface was spared._

_His tormenter's methods were simple, the beating continued until their victim screamed and continued until he could scream no more._

John's voice broke the memory's hold on Sherlock and the tall man's cries faded away into silence. The detective was only aware the sound of John's voice, the touch of John's hands.  _John not the monsters._

"...safe. I'll always keep you safe." The doctor held Sherlock's face cupped in his hands and sought the spark that would indicate his friend's return to the here and now.

Two large hands reached up and wrapped themselves around John's wrists. "It's okay." Sherlock's voice was raspy. "I'm back." He was already pulling on the doctor's left hand, seeking to guide it back to its previous position, index finger sandwiched between Sherlock's own.

John snatched his hand away. "Bloody hell, Sherlock. We can't do that again."

The disdainful look that the detective levelled at his friend was so reminiscent of who the man had been before this ordeal that John's heart gave a painful lurch. He longed for the glares of contempt and cutting words that Sherlock wielded against the world. The doctor intended to do everything in his power to see his friend whole again but seeing him suffer in the grip of a flashback was incredibly difficult. John didn't think that he could face it again so soon.

"Just give me some time. You might be ready to plunge back into that... well..." John gestured vaguely toward Sherlock's head before continuing, "but I, at least need a bit of a break before we have another go."

Sherlock huffed. “Really, John. I’m the one experiencing the flashback. If I can continue…”

“Shut it.” John tone brooked no argument. “I said I need a break.” The doctor studied his friend, noting that Sherlock seemed unexpectedly calm for someone who had just experienced a flashback. “Sherlock, what do you remember from your flashbacks?”

The other man grimaced. “Just a few images and vague emotions.” Sherlock’s mouth pulled into a grimace. “They’re not  _really_  my memories.” The look that John directed at him was dubious. “Really, John. I wasn’t even there when those things happened. I was already locked away in my Mind Palace.” With those last words, the detective gestured toward his head.

John wasn’t convinced. “I don’t think it works like that Sherlock. I don’t really understand how you did what you did, splitting yourself into two parts, but they were-  _are_ , a part of you. I think you’re going to have to face that before this is over.”

Taking advantage of his new found freedom, Sherlock stood from where he was seated on the edge of his bed and began pacing. He was still sore, so his pacing did not have the fervour that usually accompanied his physical ramblings; still, it freed his mind to roam. It was obvious, even to himself, that he didn’t like the implications of his friend’s words. However, if he were to look at the situation objectively, he wondered, was it possible that John could be correct?

Sherlock sat in the second chair, opposite John and next to the bed. The detective started to bring his hands together beneath his chin but caught himself just short of his palms touching. Soon, he was lost in thought. After a moment, he looked at John, his face unreadable. “Perhaps you’re right.” Sherlock allowed his eyes to fall shut as he entered his Mind Palace. The shard’s memories had to be there somewhere and he would find them. Once found, he would delete each and every one.

Not knowing what was going on in the detective’s head, but recognising his thinking pose, John sat in the remaining chair. He allowed himself to enjoy the sight of Sherlock sitting thoughtfully, his graceful hands echoing their normal position. The detective was healing physically and was regaining his ethereal beauty but it was the beauty of the other man’s mind that John longed to see healed the most.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief flashback to a rape. Please don't read if it is a trigger for you.

He hadn’t intended to come here. In fact, this was one of the last places in his Mind Palace that he had ever wanted to see again. It was the darkened room where he had hidden during his imprisonment and abuse. At least the door remained ajar and light was streaming in from the hallway. With difficulty, Sherlock shrugged off the remembered horror and helplessness that he had felt while imprisoned in this bleak room. He forced himself to stand tall, with confidence and strode into the hallway in search of evidence of the Shard. It wasn't as brightly lit as he remembered. A moment’s thought brought him to realise that it was because Inner John wasn't present. He briefly considered calling on him for support but dismissed the idea - he didn't want even the shade of John to witness what he was sure to find.

Normally, Sherlock would know the precise location of the memories that he was seeking, but in this instance he hadn't filed the memories away, they had found a home in his Mind Palace of their own accord.  **What to do?**

There was an inexplicable feeling deep in his gut. He disliked acting on something so vague, but the feeling was insistent. Sherlock turned to his left and began walking. As he traversed the hallways of his Mind Palace, he was driven to turn at random intervals. His surroundings grew increasingly grim. The walls were grey in colour and their shade deepened with every step.

Finally, Sherlock stopped in front of a door. Though there was no evidence that this was the room that he was seeking, he was certain that this was his destination. He reached out and opened the door with a shaking hand. Before dread could stop him, he stepped into the room. It was surprisingly empty with the exception of a naked form curled up on its side. Sherlock approached the form hesitantly, a dread certainty at what he would find causing him to tremble. The naked form was beyond thin, it was emaciated; its dark curls were a sweaty matted mess, and the bruising...

Sherlock fell to his knees. He had known intellectually what had happened to him, but his one brief flashback hadn't prepared him for this. Now he was effectively seeing the results of his ordeal written large on his body. The detective gingerly reached out to touch the form in front of him. Instead of touching flesh, his hand was pulled deeply into the body. Sherlock's awareness followed.

_Fingers were digging into his hips which were already bruised from previous abuse. He couldn't help pulling on his restraints in a vain effort to escape. Old wounds were ripped open anew at his wrists and ankles. There was a blow to the side of his head and he stopped struggling, momentarily dazed._

_The monster acted._

_His body was invaded, unprepared, and he screamed. Old tearing yielded under the onslaught and provided lubrication in the form of blood._

"Sherlock, come back. Now! That's an order!" John was frantic, his friend's sudden thrashing had startled him to action. He placed a hand on the detective's knee.

In a quick motion, Sherlock drove his body backward and away from the touch. The chair toppled to its side and the detective scrambled away, only stopping when he reached the wall behind him. His gaze was unfocused and the look on his face was one of pure horror.

John decided against approaching his friend. Instead, he called his name repeatedly in a soft reassuring manner. Several long minutes passed before Sherlock focused on the doctor.

"John." The name was a broken sob on the detective's lips.

The doctor moved slowly closer to Sherlock. "You're safe. Whatever you saw in there, it's over. It's not happening. I'll keep you safe."

The doctor was right in front of Sherlock. Ever so slowly, John reached out to take his friend's hand. When their fingers touched, the detective pulled him into a fierce embrace. He held onto the doctor, an anchor of safety in a world gone mad.

"I couldn't do it." Sherlock was shaking. "I thought that I could. I should have been able to."

"Take it easy. Slow down. What couldn't you do?"

The detective was shaking his head even as he buried it in John's shoulder. "I wanted to delete it all but I was pulled in. I  _remembered_."

John's blood ran cold. He knew that Sherlock would have to face everything that had happened to him, would have to reintegrate himself with what he insisted on calling the Shard, but it was so incredibly painful to watch. He hesitated. "What did you remember?"

The detective's grip on him grew tighter and a sob escaped his lips, but no answer was forthcoming.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock had calmed considerably and had even released his hold on John. Now he sat on the floor, his head tilted back, eyes closed, to rest against the wall. "I can't stand this room any longer." He meant something very different. Perhaps "I can't do this" or "This hurts too much", or even "Please, please John. Make this all go away."

John understood all of the things that Sherlock hadn't said. "Yeah, I know. I'm fairly sick of the place as well." His smile was weak and his eyes full of concern. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Get me out of here. I want to go home."

His friend was pleading and that struck hard at John's heart. He reached out and carded his hand through Sherlock's sweaty locks. "You're just not ready, Love." Neither man seemed to notice John's use of the appellation. "I'll see about a brief change of scenery. Maybe a short walk or a ride." The doctor managed to retrieve his phone from his pocket and speed dialed Mycroft without removing his hand from Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock didn't pay attention to John's conversation with whoever was on the phone. He simply concentrated on the contact with his friend's hand in his hair and tried very hard not to think. An indeterminate amount of time passed.

Mycroft stepped into the room, announcing himself by calling their names. "John. Sherlock."

The doctor looked up from his place on the floor. "Mycroft, you didn't have to come yourself."

"Nonsense, John. I've been away far too long." The older Holmes came over and rested on his hauches next to the doctor. He tentatively reached out and took Sherlock's hand. "Brother, I've arranged a short ride for you and John." He squeezed his brother's hand. "When you get back, you'll return to a different room, a different suite entirely."

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at his brother.

Mycroft gave him a smile. "No more hospital bed, 'Lock. You'll have windows as well. The change should do you some good."

A response seemed to be required, so Sherlock squeezed Mycroft's hand back. "Thank you Myc."

Anthea chose that moment to enter the room. "Sir, I've brought the things that you requested."

Mycroft gave a gesture toward a chair. "Thank you. Just leave everything there."

She placed the items on the chair. "The car will be waiting in forty-five minutes. Is there anything else you need?" At her employer's shake of his head, she turned and left, drawing the door closed behind her.

Sherlock's eyes had brightened a bit at the sight of clothes, real clothes not pyjamas, laying on the chair. Both Mycroft and John smiled at the sight; it had been too long since they had seen such a look on the detective's face.

John assisted the detective with a shower as he had done before then shaved Sherlock ever so carefully. Afterwards, Mycroft handed each item of clothing to the doctor as John helped Sherlock dress.

The older Holmes brother regarded Sherlock who was now dressed in black trousers and white Oxford shirt. His brother looked more like himself than he had since this ordeal had begun; however, Sherlock was incredibly pale, even more pale than usual - his lips and cheeks still lacked colour.

"Are you up to this?" John voiced the concern that Mycroft felt. "We can wait a bit. There's no hurry." The doctor positively revelled at Sherlock's withering glare. "Right. Okay then."

The older Holmes brother led the way from the room. Sherlock followed and John brought up the rear. They made it through the adjoining room with no problem but the detective halted in the outer doorway rather than stepping into the hall.

John was finely attuned to Sherlock's every move. He stepped up close behind the detective and placed his hand on the taller man's shoulder. "Take your time. If it's too much, we don't have to do this. Just say the word and we'll forget it."

Sherlock nodded. After several long moments, he turned and took John's hand. The doctor gave him a reassuring smile and the detective returned it. They entered the hallway together. After more than one such pause, they arrived at the garage - Mycroft had thought that entering the car from inside would be easier on his brother.

"I'll leave you here. When you return, you'll find me waiting in your new accommodations." Mycroft closed the door to the sedan and watched as it pulled away. Perhaps he shouldn't wait to speak to the two men about their feelings for one another. Having everything out in the open just might help Sherlock recover faster.

As the sedan pulled out of the garage, Sherlock sidled closer to John. The bright light of day was almost overwhelming so he reached out and took his friend's hand to steady himself.

"You alright?" John was clearly concerned.

Sherlock smiled an affirmative and looked out the window at the scenery as it passed. He didn't want to think but he couldn't stop. His mind drifted back to his spectacular failure inside his Mind Palace. How would he ever be himself again if he couldn't purge The Shard from his memories? So long as they remained, he would be subject to hateful flashbacks.

 **At least I have John to help.** He pondered that thought for a bit, allowing himself to remember the sensation of John's hand carding through his hair.

Sherlock desperately wanted to be back home at 221B, but, as always, John was correct - he wasn't ready. Suddenly, he remembered what John had said, each word vivid and bright: "You're just not ready, Love." John had called him _Love_. Sherlock found that he couldn't breathe.

The doctor noticed Sherlock's distress immediately. "Get us back, now! " John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's head.

"No. 'M okay." Sherlock forced himself to breathe again and schooled his face to calmness. "Please."

John gave him a long assessing look, it was as if the doctor were trying to see into Sherlock's soul.

"Sir?" The driver's voice was questioning.

The doctor reached a decision. "Never mind. Just keep driving." He addressed Sherlock. "What was that?"

The detective swallowed. Could he have this? John was already his anchor, his touchstone. He _needed_ John.

Sherlock pulled away from his friend abruptly. He knew that he was broken, would most likely remain broken. John deserved someone who was whole and Sherlock would never be that - could never be that again. He suddenly felt the hot bite of tears and turned to hide them.

"Sherlock?"

John was starting to get concerned again. If the detective couldn't reign in his reactions, the doctor would have the car turned around no matter what Sherlock said.

"It's nothing. I was just thinking."

His friend wasn't convinced. "You always think. What were you thinking about _in particular? "_

Sherlock cursed himself inwardly. He felt weak. He needed this. "It's something you said earlier." He couldn't make himself explain further.

John looked puzzled. "Something I said? What did I say?"

Looking out the window, the detective decided to say it. "You... called me 'Love'."

Silence hung in the air.

"Oh." John swallowed hard. "Christ. I didn't realise." He scooted away from Sherlock. "I'm sorry. Really, I know you don't..." He was babbling, clearly panicked.

The detective's head swiveled around toward John. "Don't." That one word stopped John's guilty response. "It's... alright. More than alright."

Sherlock didn't _look_ like it was alright and John felt like his heart was being squeezed tight within his chest. "I hear a 'but' in that."

"You deserve someone better, someone whole." John started to interrupt but Sherlock continued. "This may be it. I may never be better than this. I may never be well enough to go home."

"It doesn't matter. I love you. And you will get better." John's voice was full of certainty and caring.

"You can't say that. Don't you see? I can't take a shower on my own. I can't even feed myself!" Sherlock was shouting. "You can't be expected to put up with that."

"I'll say it again. I love you. I want to take care of you if that's what you need. Sherlock, that's what people do when they love someone." John could see that Sherlock didn't believe him. "You would do the same for me."

The detective wanted to deny it if only to dissuade his friend. "Don't you understand?" He decided to be brutally honest though it made him sick to think of it, much less to say it out loud. His words came out in a whisper. "They raped me. I knew that, but it was intellectual to me before. Earlier, when I panicked, it was because... I remembered." He swallowed. "I can't delete it, I was trying to delete everything... even The Shard itself. It didn't work. I don't know if... I may never want..."

"It doesn't matter. I've loved you for so long and I never expected anything in return. So long as you allowed me to be part of your life, that was enough. Is enough." John had to make Sherlock understand.

"But your girlfriends..."

"What girlfriends? Think. When was the last time I went on a date?"

In Sherlock's current state, he couldn't be precise in his recollection, but he realised that it had been months. "Oh." A pause. "But you're not gay. You've said it often enough."

John felt the stirrings of guilt. "I'm not. I'm bi, but that's really no excuse for what I said. You just shut me down so hard that first night and then everyone assumed we were a couple and it didn't seem fair. So. I just... " He shrugged and now it was his turn to look away.

The detective moved slightly closer to John and slid a tentative hand across the seat towards his friend. "Do you really want to stay with me like I am?"

John turned back to face Sherlock. "If you'll let me." He took the detective's hand.

"I think I would like that." The detective gave him a tentative smile. "I think it might help me to know I have a reason to keep trying. Sometimes it's so hard."

"I know Love… I can call you that, right?"

"Please." Sherlock sidled even closer and placed his head on John's shoulder. **Love.** When things got to be too hard he would remember that single word and keep fighting.


	13. Chapter 13

Mycroft looked about the room with satisfaction. Mrs. Hudson and Anthea had chosen well in their selections. Sherlock's laptop, violin, and skull were laying on the table as well as a small collection of Sherlock's experimental equipment. There was nothing dangerous in the mix but, when his brother began to feel better, he would be able to entertain himself - under supervision, of course. A sampling of his brother's clothes had been put away in one of the bedrooms as well.

When Anthea pointed John and Sherlock into the suite, Mycroft immediately saw the change. He smiled in satisfaction - he wouldn't need to talk to either man.

"You need to rest now." John's arm was wrapped possessively around the detective's waist.

"Don't want to. I'm not sleepy." Sherlock sounded refreshingly petulant.

John scowled. "Did I mention sleep? I don't think so. Now, you are going to rest. Do you want to stay in here or go to your new room?" The doctor took in the look on Sherlock's face. "Right. Stupid question. Stay here it is."

Mycroft watched as the two men made their way to the sofa and sat. It didn't take long for Sherlock to lay down and place his head in John's lap. The older Holmes brother took a seat across from them. He couldn't help the small smile that crept onto his face.

"Your face will break, Mycroft." Sherlock's tone was acerbic. "It's not used to making that shape."

If his brother felt well enough to engage in snark, who was Mycroft to gainsay him? "Sentiment, Sherlock. Really?"

John started to put Mycroft in his place but he didn't get a chance. The older Homes continued. "I must say, it's about time." When Sherlock merely glared at his brother, he continued. "John's good for you."

"Obviously." Sherlock looked slightly smug. He rolled to his side and folded his hands together.

Mycroft breathed in sharply - _Sherlock's hands were folded together_. Both his brother and John noticed Mycroft's reaction and followed his gaze to where the detective's hands were touching each other.

Sherlock's reaction was immediate - he pulled his hands apart and jerked violently away from John. The cry that escaped his throat was primal. In mere moments, he was knelt on the floor in front his master. "I'm sorry, Sir. I'm sorry. Please, I'm sorry."

"Sherlock."

The detective was still apologising.

John tried again. "Sherlock. Pet!"

Sherlock flinched and fell silent.

"It's okay. No one is angry. I'm not angry. It's okay. It's good." John reached out and tipped the detectives's head up so he could meet his eyes. "I'm proud of you, Sherlock." His stomach churned at seeing Sherlock fall apart again.

The detective blinked slowly then came back to himself with a shudder. "John." He sounded dazed.

"That's right. I'm here." John pulled him up and onto his lap. "You back?" He received a silent nod in response. After holding Sherlock for several long minutes, he spoke. "I think that was actually progress."

The detective looked at John in disbelief. He had just lost himself completely, it was as if The Shard had come briefly to life and usurped his place in his own body.

"He's right Sherlock." Mycroft was determined for his brother to see this in a good light. "You're hands were touching, even if it was unintentional. I do believe this is the first time it has happened." He directed his next words to John, abruptly changing topic as only a Holmes could do. "If you require a break, I would be happy to relieve you for a bit."

"No. I think I'll just stay right here." The smile that the doctor directed at Mycroft was a blend of contentment and concern: contentment, because he could comfort Sherlock properly now, and concern, because his love still suffered so badly. "You don't have to leave though."

Mycroft regretfully needed to return to his work and his brother would be, if not fine, then as well as he could be with John. "No, if I'm not needed, there are a few matters of the utmost urgency that require my attention." He stood and, with a small smile, left the other two men alone.

As soon as his brother left, Sherlock leaned away slightly from John. He had to make him understand what had happened to him just minutes before. "The Shard is alive in here." He gestured toward his temple. "For it, the nightmare is still very real - it's as if everything were still happening right now." He hesitated. "Sometimes that bleeds through and I have a flashback or it takes control like it did just now." He was shaking. He didn't want to be shaking. He wanted to be better. Now. "When I found it in my Mind Palace and touched it, I was pulled into its memories. They were so real. I was there." The last words were a bare whisper.

"You mentioned that in the car." John loved this man so much, he had to find a way to help. "If I could somehow reach into your mind and be a presence there, I would. I would walk the halls of your Mind Palace and be your protector and stand between you and The Shard."

Sherlock gave him a long look. "But you are there. Remember? You told me to look for you and there you were."

John pulled him into a fierce embrace. "Then use me. Let me protect you."

The detective was puzzled and it showed on his face. "But, John, you said that I would have to face my memories not keep them locked away. I think you were right."

The doctor growled in frustration, there had to be a way to deal with this that wouldn't be so hurtful to Sherlock. "What if you used me in there," he tapped his love's temple, "to extract memories from The Shard one at a time? You know, as a sort of buffer. Then you wouldn't be overwhelmed."

Sherlock was tired and didn't want to think anymore. "Perhaps, but not now. I'm tired John." He let out a long sigh at having to make such an admission.

"Later then. Let's see this new room of yours."

The detective climbed off of John's lap and the doctor stood. They picked Sherlock's room on the first try as evidenced by the presence of his clothing in the closet. The room felt far more inviting than Sherlock's old room had. Sunlight streamed through the window giving it a sense of warmth.

"Not bad." John bounced on the balls of his feet.

"Hmm, yes, it's far less like a prison." Sherlock sat on the edge of the large bed. He lifted his feet one at a time and John obligingly removed the detective's shoes. When the doctor was done, Sherlock swung his feet onto the bed and laid down.

"I'll be just in the other room if you need me. I'll leave the door open, yeah?" John didn't really want to go but this room didn't have a chair that he could use.

"No!" There was clear alarm in Sherlock's voice. John froze. "Stay, please?"

"Sherlock..."

The detective moved to the other side of the bed. "Please?"

John couldn't ignore Sherlock's imploring look. "Alright, love. I'll stay." He climbed into the bed next to the detective.

Sherlock wrapped a long arm around John's waist and rested his head against the doctor's chest. It wasn't long before the detective slipped into slumber.


	14. Chapter 14

John couldn't sleep. With the exception of that one time early on when he had managed a full eight hours, he hadn't really been able to rest since this nightmare had started. The problem was that he wanted to be there if Sherlock needed him and he couldn't very well do that if he were asleep in another room. That meant that most of the sleep he had managed had been caught while he was slumped in a chair at the detective's bedside. Now, Sherlock was right there, next to him - well, practically wrapped around him. The other man was even resting peacefully at the moment.

So why couldn't he sleep?

Maybe it was because this was the first chance that John had been able to catch his breath, to let his mind wander. Unfortunately, his thoughts were entering dark territory that he had somehow been able to avoid until now. Memories and second guesses were haunting him, he kept replaying key moments in his mind.

_John and Lestrade were talking quietly at the crime scene. They were discussing the possible ways that the killers could have made their entry. Sherlock had insisted that they had used the window. Neither John nor the DI could see how._

_The doctor turned to ask his friend to expound upon his theories. Sherlock was gone._

John was convinced that that was when he had made his first mistake. He should have been paying closer attention to Sherlock. After all, it wasn't the first time that the detective had gone haring off alone. When Sherlock did that, odds were even that he would end up in trouble.

**I should have been paying more attention.**

Sherlock shifted in the bed. He threw his right leg over John. The doctor looked at him and thought about how close he had come to losing him completely. It didn't bear thinking about, but he could do little else.

_John had taken leave of the DI, but with no clue as to where his friend had gone, he decided to return to 221B. He had settled in for the evening and occasionally texted Sherlock._

_Are you okay? - JW_

_Where are you? - JW_

_You dickhead, tell me you are alright! - JW_

_I swear, if you don't tell me where you are, I'm calling Mycroft! - JW_

_Good night, then, you complete and utter prat. - JW_

With absolute certainty, John knew that that had been his second mistake. The doctor hadn't called the older Holmes brother, of course. If John had made a habit of sounding the alarm every time Sherlock disappeared, he would have been no better than the boy who cried wolf. Still, that judgement call haunted him now.

**I should have called Mycroft then.**

_When the doctor got up the next morning and Sherlock wasn't in the flat, he started to worry. When his phone remained obstinately silent for the rest of the day, he started to panic. Later that evening, even Greg had been concerned. John had revisited every location tied to the case rather than sleep that night._

_Dawn of the third day had arrived with no word from Sherlock. John had called Mycroft. That had opened a world of resources for him and Lestrade to utilise but the trail had run cold._

_It was weeks later that they had gotten the lead that led to Sherlock's recovery. A brief sighting on CCTV of one of the murder suspects had led John to an abandoned warehouse. He had set up surveillance and, after several hours, had verified that the warehouse was being used as the killers' safehouse. That's when he had called Greg. Now he questioned why he had waited so long to call._

John was breathing hard now. His self recriminations were mounting. Sherlock stirred. The doctor tried to calm his breathing with no success.

"Don't." Sherlock's voice was a low rubble. He gripped John more tightly. "It wasn't your fault so quit tearing yourself up over it."

The tightness in John's chest eased just a bit, not because he truly believed the detective's words but because Sherlock was so bloody "Amazing. Even now, with all of the crap you're dealing with, you're simply amazing."

"Not amazing." Sherlock sounded pleased. He needed John's praise and had had very little chance to earn it since his rescue. "This is the first chance that you've had to think. You feel that I am your responsibility, though that idea is patently absurd. Furthermore," he swallowed, "I would be berating, no, destroying myself if it had been you." Sherlock sounded as if he were making a dark confession. "I could never do what you are doing."

"Wrong."

Sherlock lifted his head from John's chest to look the man in the eye. He saw love and compassion on the doctor's face.

"You might think that you couldn't do this, but you are so wrong. You would fight and never flag until I was fully recovered. Maybe you would fall apart when it was all done, I don't know, but you would never do it before then." John sounded certain of his convictions.

"Hmm. I want to try again."

"What's that? What do you want to try, exactly?" John sounded wary. Sherlock couldn't blame him.

Sometimes it seemed like everything they tried was only met with failure. The detective had to remind himself how far he had come. He could talk freely, move about, be almost himself at times. Those were good things.

"Feeding myself. Drinking on my own. Touching my index fingers together. Take your pick."

"Not your Mind Palace, then." John sounded extremely relived.

Sherlock gave a shudder. "No. Not yet... maybe later." He wasn't eager to delve into his own psyche again.

"Okay, love." John considered. "It's been a while since we last ate so let's start with that." He shifted on the bed. "Right after I use the loo."


	15. Chapter 15

It hadn't taken long for John to finish in the loo. He had helped Sherlock take care of his private business immediately thereafter.

A request for food had resulted in toast, an assortment of fruit, juice (for quick energy), and tea. Sherlock was sitting in a comfortable chair with a small table pulled up over his lap. John was fussily arranging the food for him on the table.

It was a very frustrated Sherlock who was looking at his juice. John had wanted him to try drinking it first. It had been a miserable failure. The detective's hand had started shaking uncontrollably when he had reached toward the glass of juice. He dropped his hand and glowered at the offending glass. He was still glowering now.

John tried to offer comfort. "It's alright Sherlock."

"No it's not. It's insufferable." The detective looked like he might flip the table over in a fit of pique.

John pursed his lips and thought deeply. He recalled the video footage of his lover's captivity. Sherlock wasn't allowed to hold a cup or to even lap from a dish but... Sherlock is a very literal person. Would he extrapolate those limitations to other methods of drinking, say using a straw?

The doctor walked to the corner cabinet where all manner of medical supplies were kept and started rummaging through the various boxes.

"John?"

"I'm just looking for something." He found a box of flex straws useful for offering liquid to reclining patients. Grabbing one he returned to Sherlock's side and unceremoniously placed it in the juice. "Try that.

Sherlock turned a scowl on John. "Really?"

John gave an exasperated sigh. "Really. Just try."

Without trying to pick up the glass, the detective leaned forward and wrapped his lips around the straw and sucked. The sweet taste of juice flooded his mouth and Sherlock swallowed. He felt giddy. It was such a simple thing and he could have danced with joy for it. When he looked up, John was grinning at him, a glint of moisture in his eyes.

There was even joy in Sherlock's voice as well as a hint of wonder. "How did you know?"

John didn't stop to consider he just spoke. "I thought about how they trained you an reasoned that this was outside of what they did to you."

Sherlock went still and his face went blank. John realised what he just gave away and berated himself for it.

"How do you know how they trained me?" The detective's voice had gone cold. His face showed instant understanding. "There were videos." It was not a question. "You watched them." He growled out the last sentence in anger.

John was terrified, not of Sherlock, but that he'd lost him. Why had he let that slip. "I had to know what they did to you. You weren't talking, weren't here. I needed every bit of information available if I was going to be able to help you."

Sherlock was holding himself stiffly and wasn't looking at John.

"Please, Sherlock. I didn't watch them to hurt you."

"I want to see them."

John's arm flew up and he was pointing sharply at his friend. "No fucking way. That is simply not going to happen."

Sherlock pouted angrily. "It would help..."

"What part of no don't you understand? I said no and that's final." John could see Sherlock plotting. "Mycroft won't let you see them either."

"Fine." The detective threw himself back against the cushion.

John sat down next to the sulking detective. "Toast." He held the toast up to Sherlock's lips and his friend waspishly took a bite. John continued offering food and the detective sulkily continued to eat, punctuating the meal with independent sips of juice through the straw.

During the meal, John starting thinking again. Sherlock's penchant for taking things literally might serve him well in another area. When the detective refused to take another bite, John returned to the supply cabinet.

Sherlock followed the doctor with his eyes. When the other man returned with a pair of surgical grade latex gloves, his curiosity overrode his annoyance with John. "What are those for?"

"Give me your hands."

Sherlock obediently held his hands out and John fitted the gloves in place.

"Right. Try your thinking pose."

With hands that shook, Sherlock slowly folded his hands together beneath his chin. It worked!

The detective sprang from his seat and lunged forward. His annoyance with John was completely forgotten. "You are amazing!" Sherlock was embracing John and placed a chaste kiss on his neck. He settled his head in the crook of John's neck.

Though the kiss had been chaste, Sherlock was breathing into John's neck and John now had an armful of very appealing detective. He was getting an erection. He had to do something before he spooked Sherlock.  
"Erm, love. This is very nice, maybe too nice right now."

Sherlock looked down and spotted the evidence of John's arousal. He flinched away involuntarily.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I'll ignore it and it'll go away. "

The detective couldn't meet his eyes.


	16. Chapter 16

John eased Sherlock past his awkwardness and they settled in the living room for the remainder of the day. The doctor resumed reading a novel and the detective poked around on his laptop. Luckily John couldn't see what he was doing.

"Sherlock, John." Mycroft greeted them from just inside the door. "May I join you for a bit?"

Without taking his eyes from his book, John waved the older Holmes brother into the room. "Make yourself at home. We're not exactly busy."

"Yesss, come in Myc. Perhaps you could help with a problem." Sherlock looked pointedly in John's direction.

Mycroft looked at John. Properly looked at him. The doctor had dark circles under his eyes, his skin had a grey hue, and he had lost an alarming amount of weight. "John, you need some rest."

"Sherlock and I just had a long rest." He sounded very indignant.

The detective wasn't letting him get away with that. "You didn't sleep the entire time. You lay there and thought and worried. You never closed your eyes."

"I'm fine."

Mycroft retrieved two pills from the medical cabinet. "You're really not. John, you will take these pills and you will sleep. I'll watch over Sherlock."

John and Sherlock talked over one another.

"I don't need a babysitter."

"What if I refuse to take the pills?"

Mycroft fired back in rapid succession. "You know that you're not to be left alone, 'Lock. John, if you don't take the medication, several of my 'minions' as you call them will come in here, force you to the floor, and inject you with a medication that will ensure several hours of blissful sleep." He never cracked a smile.

"You know," John rolled his eyes, "I have begrudgingly decided to call you an ally and friend and you still scare the hell out of me." He held out his hand and took the pills that Mycroft offered. He got a glass of water and downed the pills. Before retreating to his bedroom, he admonished Mycroft, "Take care of him for me."

"Most assuredly, John." Mycroft sat across from his brother, a knowing look on his face. "Now that the good doctor is gone, what has captured your attention so completely?"

Sherlock considered prevaricating but thought better off it. Despite what John thought, there was a good chance that Mycroft would understand and would give him what he needed. "I'm looking for the videos."

Mycroft grimaced. He didn't have to ask which videos, it was patently obvious. "Oh, Sherlock. Do you really think it's wise?"

"I don't know about wise, but it is necessary." Sherlock sounded so certain of himself.

"Before I give you access to the video files, there is a small item we need to discuss." Mycroft was studying the nails of his right hand. "Your friends have beed asking after you. Naturally, I have withheld details, but both Mrs. Hudson and Miss Hooper are aware that you are recovering from grevious injuries. DI Lestrade, however, is fully aware of the nature of your injuries. He has been in contact quite frequently and is very insistent that he be allowed to see you. The decision is, of course, yours."

It didn't take Sherlock long to decide, after all, Lestrade had been there for him during his days as a junkie and had stood by him during his rehab. Lestrade already knew the worst about this entire affair as well. "He can come."

Mycroft acknowledged his brother's answer with a nod. "I'll arrange for him to visit tomorrow then." He made a face of distaste as he stood and moved to sit next to his brother. "Allow me." He gestured toward the laptop. Sherlock passed it to him without a word. With just a few keystrokes, Mycroft accessed a secure server and navigated to a highly protected folder. "These are the only copies of these files. When you are finished, delete them and it will be as if they never existed." Mycroft moved to a chair across the room to give his brother some privacy.

The first file that Sherlock opened showed him bound to a chair. He was being beaten in the face repeatedly. The detective cringed. He remembered this bit, The Shard hadn't existed yet. Sherlock scanned rapidly through the video skipping scenes of simple beatings and a couple of him being choked. Just seeing it made his throat hurt in remembrance. The first file came to an end. Sherlock opened the second file. He managed to hold onto his impassivity until he reached the first rape. Seeing it made him nauseous and he broke out into a sweat. He remembered this too. He also remembered the burns and the cuts. The video was getting hard to view. During the second rape, he saw it - the moment his mind split. Oddly, everything became easier to watch after that - there were no emotions attached to those memories. He watched as he was restrained and beaten for curling into a ball for comfort. He watched as he was forced to beg to be fed. He watched as he was trained to be the perfect sexual pet.

Sherlock had thought that he could handle it. He was convinced that viewing the videos would give him a tool for coping with his trauma without the inconvenience of emotion. He was wrong. Emotions attacked him anyway. Sherlock started trembling. He was shaking so violently that his laptop fell from his lap. He whispered out a plea, "Myc."

In less than a heartbeat, Mycroft was sitting by his brother and held him in his grasp. "It's okay 'Lock. It's okay. You're safe. It's okay."

The man unaccustomed to accepting comfort took it gratefully from the man unaccustomed to giving it.

 


	17. Chapter 17

John woke feeling remarkably better. Apparently he really had needed some uninterrupted sleep. He stretched and debated getting a shower but decided that he wanted to check on Sherlock first.

The smile on his face faded quickly when he stepped into the living room. Sherlock was perched on the sofa, looking dazed and lost. Mycroft didn't look much better. He appeared injured, worried, and no little bit guilty.

"What's happened?" John's voice was full of concern.

Neither Holmes spoke.

"Flashback?"

Still nothing.

"Nightmare, then?" John asked (as if he actually thought Sherlock had slept).

It was Mycroft who finally answered. "No, John. We... I made a miscalculation." He had wanted to sound like his usual detached self. His words had come out correctly, but his voice had shaken.

John didn't like the sound of that. One thing the doctor was certain of, if Mycroft said that he had made a miscalculation, then whatever had happened had been a clusterfuck.

Before John could ask what had happened, Sherlock spoke. "I watched part of the videos."

In a matter of a few heartbeats, John felt many things: shock, sorrow, concern, anger. The anger flared hot. "Bloody hell! Couldn't you, just once, have listened to me when I told you not to do something! Fuck!" The bin standing by the door made a convenient target for his anger. He kicked it across the room.

Mycroft's voice was steely and cold. "Do control yourself Doctor Watson or I shall have you removed." After everything that Sherlock had been through, he wouldn't have him exposed to John's explosive temper.

John's response sounded equally cold. "Try it." There was no way that he would leave Sherlock alone with his brother. Mycroft couldn't be trusted to act with any common sense.

The two men were at an impass. Both were equally furious and totally convinced that they were in the right. Neither man noticed that Sherlock had shrunk into the cushions of the sofa and was chanting the periodic table.

That was when the door opened and Greg walked into the middle of the madness. Being a police officer, it didn't take him long to assess the scene before him. Mycroft was standing, his body poised and ready for a fight. John had the heavy marble paperweight from the desk in hand, ready to spring. Thankfully, he didn't have his SIG. Greg had a choice to make: intercede with John and Mycroft or help Sherlock. He hated setting his youngest friend in distress, but the other two men looked to be exchanging blows in the very near. The DI knew that they were both capable of efficient lethality. It really wasn't a choice. Dropping the box that he was carrying, Greg stepped between the two men. "Whatever the hell is going on, stand down!" When he didn't get the response that he wanted, he raised his voice even louder. "Stand down now!"

Remarkably, it was Mycroft who backed off first. John only relaxed marginally.

Greg gestured towards Sherlock who now had his arms curled around his knees and was still chanting. "I don't know what this is about, but look what you've done to him."

"Oh God, Sherlock. I'm so sorry." John was already moving to the detective's side.

Mycroft would have stopped him were it not for the DI's sudden grip on his arm. Greg knew that, no matter what had happened, Sherlock would respond best to John. "Don't."

It was painful for Greg to watch as John did his best to soothe his friend, but he knew that there was nothing he himself could do. It was up to John.

The DI had to understand why John and Mycroft had been practically at each other's throats. "Okay. I realise that I don't know you all that well and you may think it's none of my business, but I need to know what's going on here."

The older Holmes brother wrenched his arm from Greg's grip. "The doctor lost his temper. I threatened to have him removed."

Greg thought that Mycroft had to be the biggest idiot in Britain despite being a genius. "That explains a lot. Did he have a reason to loose his temper?"

Mycroft grimaced. "Perhaps. If he had only railed at me and hadn't included Sherlock, it wouldn't have caused an incident."

The DI let out a low groan. Things were becoming more clear by the moment. "That explains the rest." He shook his head in disbelief. "Christ. Let me explain something. Those two," he indicated John and Sherlock, "solve cases together, John bullies Sherlock into eating and sleeping, Sherlock does something idiotic, they fight about it, and then they make up. It's how they work."

"He kicked the bin across the room. He was out of control," Mycroft growled, his eyes hard.

Greg wiped his hand across his face. "And you thought trying to separate them was the answer. Listen, and try to remember this. Don't ever try to force those two apart when one of them is injured or hurt in any way. I don't care how justified you may feel in making the attempt. You can persuade, cajole, or even use trickery, but don't force it. It's obvious that Sherlock was quite distressed. Open your eyes." He gestured to the pair of men once again. "All of this could have been avoided if you had directed John's attention to that fact. He can't leave Sherlock in pain if it's in his power to put an end to it." The DI could see that he was getting through to the other man.

Mycroft was regarding John and Sherlock thoughtfully. His brother had already calmed under John's ministrations. He was certain that the subject of the videos would be raised again eventually, but the fury had obviously left the doctor in favour of concern. "Perhaps you're correct." He walked over to the two men, stopping just a couple of steps away from them. "John. Sherlock."

The detective reached out to take his brother's hand. Mycroft took it and held on tightly. Sherlock looked into the space between his brother and John. His voice was rough and he sounded tired when he spoke. "Please. I can't have you doing this. I... need both of you, but not like this. Please."

Mycroft and John were both pierced to the core by Sherlock's words. They looked at one another and an understanding was reached silently - Sherlock was more important than any differences they might have between them.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock had lain on the sofa, curled up on his side next to John, thinking, while the doctor, Greg, and Mycroft had talked. The men had only conversed in an effort to reassure him that things were "back to normal". Absurd. Normal wasn't being cooped up in this place. Normal wasn't being betrayed by his own mind. The detective determined that he would go home soon, and he would do whatever it took to make that happen whetherp that involved delving into his Mind Palace or tricking John so that he could watch the rest of the hated videos. Mycroft wouldn't delete the files, he knew. His brother would leave it to Sherlock to do that.

After an acceptable amount of time had passed, Mycroft had bid them farewell. His leaving was Greg's cue to retrieve the forgotten box from by the door where he had dropped it upon entering. Greg sat the box, full of files, next to the sofa then sat down opposite the other two men. He smiled at Sherlock. "As much as it pains me to say it, I need my consulting detective.”

John tipped his head in Sherlock’s direction. “He’s not your consulting detective, he’s mine.” John’s attempt at humour felt forced, the station of the day was starting to affect him.

The DI smiled at the other two men. "Yeah, I kind of figured that one out."

Sherlock slipped from the sofa and started going through the box that Greg had brought - it was full of files. Most of them were cold case files, but there were two active cases on top of the rest. “Thank you Lestrade.” For once, the detective wasn't excited to have cases on which to work. He had plans to make. A thought occurred to him; perhaps he could use Greg as an ally in his endeavour to return home. Sherlock opened the top file. It looked promising. It took only a matter of minutes to solve the murder. Clearly, the chemist’s father-in-law was guilty. In addition, it had been a crime of passion. The man was unlikely to kill again. It would be a simple arrest and a quick conviction, but there was no hurry; all of the evidence was in his bed side table and wouldn't be going anywhere. "Hmm, this one is complex. I'm afraid it can't be solved from here. You need me."

Before Greg could begin to respond, John had risen and snatched the file from Sherlock's grasp. "No. Not happening. You forget, I can tell when you're lying. So. Kindly walk Greg through the murder and tell him who the guilty party is."

Sherlock pratically growled out the complete explanation while he thought. He should have known better. John could read him like a book. The problem is, this place was suffocating him. He can't get away from the oppressive feelings that crowd in on him from every side. It suddenly became too much for him. "Don't you understand! Even you, with your plebeian brain, should be able to figure it out!"

Greg winced and John's face went terribly blank.

Sherlock cringed. He had snapped at John, that wasn't acceptable. He could feel the dark compulsion taking him again. The detective was scrabbling to his knees, apologies already pouring from his lips. The whole time, he was fully aware of his every action, but was helpless to stop himself. It wasn't until John had told him it was okay, that he was forgiven, that Sherlock regained control of himself.

The doctor was calm as he spoke. "See, Sherlock. It's too soon. These things happen far too easily."

Sherlock was shaking his head. "Please, John." He still had to make him understand, but he had to approach this carefully. He wouldn't risk embarrassing himself further in front of Lestrade. "Being here is keeping me from getting better. I can't forget what happened, not even for a moment, as long as we are here. I need to be home, at Baker Street."

Helping the detective to his feet, John directed Sherlock to the sofa where they both sat down. He needed a moment to think. Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock was right. What the man said made a kind of sense. He was longing for 221B as well. Maybe he was protesting too much. "We'll talk to Mycroft. Later." John gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze.

The last few minutes had been remarkably painful for Greg. It never felt right seeing Sherlock behaving any less than coolly arrogant and self possessed. The DI had had enough of that during the detective's drug days. At least the man had John now. Greg took his awkward leave.


	19. Chapter 19

Now wasn't the time to push John. If he did, then the man would dig in his heels and Sherlock would be remain stuck here indefinitely. It was time to change the mood.

Sherlock opened his violin case and looked at the instrument within. It had been far too long. Honestly, he couldn't remember how long it had been. He had to remove his gloves, of course, but that was okay. He wouldn't be touching himself while he played. He ran through the preparations quickly and, before long, he was pulling out long strains of music from the instrument. It was like freedom. He swayed in time to his own music, an improvisation that expressed all of his pain.

John watched his friend play. The mournful sounds that swirled around him nearly broke his heart. He couldn't help himself. John stood and walked up to the other man. Speaking so that Sherlock would know he was there, John leaned his head to rest against Sherlock's back.

The detective stopped swaying but continued to play. John could feel the movements of the other man's muscles beneath his forehead. The tone of the music shifted slightly and became warm. It spoke of spring and sunshine, safety and home. It was lovely and lifted John's spirits. All too soon, the music came to an end.

"Hmm. That was brilliant, Sherlock."

The detective turned and faced John. "That was you, at the end."

"I'm certainly glad I wasn't the bit at the start."

"Absurd. The beginning is the chaos that only you can make go away."

A lovely flush suffused John's face and Sherlock was quietly enraptured. Tentatively, he leaned toward and brushed his lips over John's. The contact didn't last long.

The doctor let out a small gasp and pulled back quickly, looking at the other man. "Sherlock." He had the vaguest notion that this want right. Now wasn't the time.

Sherlock had no such compunctions. He grasped John's head firmly in his hands and kissed him more fully.

John tried not to respond, but it was useless. His lips parted and Sherlock's tongue pressed between them. They tasted one another and explored each other's mouths languorously. Almost without a will of his own, John wrapped his arms around the other man and leaned into the kiss.

Before John could stop him, Sherlock's hand plunged beneath the waistline of the doctor's trousers and fumbled to reach his cock.

"Mph, Sh- Sherlock," John breathed. This was more than A Bit Not Good.

Sherlock's hand found its target and the detective froze. Dark memories that were not his own sought to overwhelm him and he fought back as best he could. He was still with John. He was safe. There was no reason to feel this way.

John extricated Sherlock's hand from his trousers and guided the other man to the sofa where they sat.

Once the detective had regained control of himself he stood again. Using it as an excuse to hide the myriad feelings that were at war within him, Sherlock dallied in putting on the gloves that he had removed earlier.

"Hey, there. It's okay."

John had walked up behind him but hadn't touched. A fact for which Sherlock was profoundly grateful. "No. It's not. I wanted..."

John's voice was full of understanding. "You don't have to say it. I know what you wanted. It's too soon, is all. "

"And if it stays that way? Then what?"

"Then it does, but that really doesn't matter."

"Why would you stay?"

John's heart ached at the sound of despair in Sherlock's voice. "Because I love you."

"That's not enough."

"You enormous git. Of course it is."

Sherlock finally turned to look at him. "People don't do that, John."

The doctor had to make him understand. It was imperative. "Yes they do. Every day. Do you have any idea how many couples stay together without sex in their lives? People get injured. They have illnesses. And sex becomes impossible for one reason or another. None of that matters as long as there is love."

"You keep saying that word, but how do you know. Maybe what you're feeling isn't love. Maybe it's just misplaced pity. When this is over, you'll get tired of this and you'll want to leave."

"That's simply not going to happen. I've loved you for far too long. You're stuck with me." John gave Sherlock a gentle smile. "I swear, it's going to be alright." He couldn't tell if he had got through to the other man or not. Only time would tell.


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock passed the next few hours alternating between boredom and anxiety. This was getting him absolutely nowhere. "I'm going into my Mind Palace, John. " He wasn't going to give the other man the option to object. Doing so would only result in a lecture and a waste of time. "You wanted to try to help the next time I did it. Now's your chance."

Much to Sherlock's surprise, John acquiesced readily. The doctor didn't see any point in arguing. The incident with the videos had reminded him just how stubborn the detective could be. He really wasn't sure how he had ever forgotten that trait in his friend. Stress must have got to him more than he realised. "Right. Um, I know you don't like people to talk while you go into your Mind Palace, so I suppose that means you can hear it when they do."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course, John. And before you ask, I am perfectly capable of paying attention to anything you might have to say while I'm submerged. It won't pull me from the construct in the least. However, my vocal responsiveness may be somewhat degraded."

That rather answered the questions that John had been going to ask so he asked another. 'How do you want to start then?"

The smile on the detective's face was rather telling. He had got his way easier than he had expected. "There's no need for anything unusual. I'll simply enter my Mind Palace and you can 'guide' me from there." He was secretly dubious that John would be of any assistance. The sooner this little experiment failed, the sooner he could walk his Mind Palace undisturbed by his friends misguided meddling.

Sherlock composed himself on the sofa, his gloves hands folded together beneath his chin. When he had done this before, he hadn't known where The Shard resided within his Mind Palace. This time he did. He was already standing in the dark grey hallway just outside the door that opened into a room of self-contained nightmares. He started to open the door but stopped when he heard John speaking to him from the real world.

"Am I there with you, Sherlock? I should be just by your side. Take my hand, Love."

The detective could no more ignore that golden voice than he could live without breathing. He looked to his right and there was Inner John. Waiting. Expectant. Sherlock took his hand.

Without waiting another moment, the detective opened the door. Inner John stepped through first and Sherlock followed.

John's voice called to him once again. "When you find The Shard, approach it, but don't get too close. Let me be the one to go near."

Sherlock stopped just short of the emaciated form.

"Don't let go of my hand, Love, but let me get close enough to touch. I'll find a memory. Imagine that I strip off most of the pain from the memory before I pass it to you."

Within, the detective watched as Inner John reached out to touch the The Shard. His hand disappeared into the body, just as Sherlock's had the time before, but this time the detective was safe. He didn't get pulled into a nightmare or memory.

Inner John looked up at him with a benevolent smile and closed his eyes.

The memory flowed into the detective smoothly, without immediate pain. It was the same memory that had overwhelmed him the last time - one of his rapes. The memory didn't feel so raw this time. It had more of a dream-like quality. In fact, his emotional reactions were one step removed. He could still feel anger, helplessness, and shame, but they felt as though they had been dealt with long ago.

In the real world, John was watching Sherlock intently. It had been easy to make out a moment of dread on his friend's face. It was followed shortly by what the doctor could only describe as relief then wonder. Determination soon settled over Sherlock's countenance. The doctor decided not to intervene. If this was working, then he would give Sherlock time to process several memories before attempting to interrupt the man.

Memories were filtered through Inner John to Sherlock in random order. He absorbed each memory, analysed it, and tucked it away on a shelf that he had built in The Shard's room. Given enough time, he would be able to sort and file every memory that comprised the sum of his captivity, but not at once. He had been a prisoner for far too long to process the memories in a single session.

Sherlock felt a hand make contact with his knee in the real world. He emerged from his Mind Palace to John's voice calling his name. The detective didn't know how long he had worked, but it must have been a considerable amount of time because he had grown stiff from maintaining the same position for so long. John was looking at him questioningly.

"This will work," Sherlock said. He was wearing an expression of un-Sherlockian-like glee. "It didn't hurt like last time, and I remember everything that you passed to me."

The look on John's face echoed that of the detective. Pausing first, to be sure that it was okay, the doctor took the other man into his arms in a celebratory embrace. Maybe they would survive this after all.


	21. Chapter 21

The room was far too small. That's what Sherlock was thinking as he paced around the area that served as a living room. He only needed four long strides to cross the entirety of the space. If he didn't get his freedom soon, he was quite convinced that he would go completely mad.

"John!" he called. It wasn't often that they left him alone, but he had convinced the doctor to take a much needed shower and change clothes. Now he required John's presence so that he could cajole him into talking to Mycroft.

John shouted something in reply, but it was incomprehensible what with the sound of the shower and the muffling walls between them. Almost immediately, Sherlock heard the fall of water stop as the doctor turned off the taps.

Still dripping, John burst from the loo. He hadn't even taken time to grab a towel. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"Of course, John. I was talking to you, but you weren't listening."

It felt like old times and the doctor almost smiled. "I was in the shower, you git!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously. That's why I called you."

John stomped back into the loo and fetched a towel. He emerged once again, drying himself and carrying his clothes. He had a feeling that, if he took the time to get dressed first, Sherlock might just break into the loo. "So what's so urgent?"

"You said we would talk later about going home. It's later."

Tossing down the now wet towel, John started dressing. He debated how to handle the situation and decided that tackling it head on would be best. "Do you really think you're ready, Sherlock."

"I really don't see why not."

"You've got to be kidding me! You can't even feed yourself yet."

Sherlock let out a huff. "So you have to feed me. John, you can do that at the flat just as well as here. And I know your next argument, but it's just as invalid because I fail to see how this location makes things better when I... get triggered." He reached out and grasped John by the arm. "You freed me. I don't have to take anyone's orders now." That wasn't entirely true, but he wasn't about to tell the doctor that. He still had to follow any command that John actively directed at him. "No one can force me to do anything."

John had finished getting dressed and threw himself down on the sofa. "I don't like the idea. I worry about you."

"You're just succumbing to sentiment. There's no rational reason to remain here." Sherlock sat next to the doctor. "Give me one reason that we should."

Dry washing his face, John answered, "If we go back to the flat, you'll push yourself too hard. You'll want to go out on a case or you'll find some other reason to rush of into London without me and what happens if you get out there alone and panic?"

"I won't, John. I promise you."

Sherlock sounded sincere, but he had always been an excellent actor. The doctor didn't imagine that had changed. Still, the detective was right. What benefit was there to remaining here really? John took out his phone and sent Mycroft a message. It was time to go home.

* * *

Mycroft listened to his brother's arguments with growing unease. He tamped down on it hard. It was only a byproduct of sentiment and he had endulged in that far too much of late. "That's enough, Sherlock. I don't need to hear anymore of your arguments. What I do need is your agreement to some conditions."

"And what would those be, brother dear."

"Increased security, for one."

"Why?"

Naturally Sherlock would ask the one question that Mycroft wanted to avoid. He suppressed a weary sigh. "Because, Sherlock, I want to keep you safe."

The detective snarled. "You want to keep control of me, you mean. You said they were dead, so I don't see the need for your security precautions."

"Sherlock," John warned.

Mycroft raised his hand placatingly. "It's alright, Doctor. They are dead, baby brother, but we haven't been able to identify the man who gave the order for your mistreatment."

John shot to his feet. "What are you talking about, Mycroft? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Would you have been content to stay here, Doctor, if you had known? Or would you have been out there seeking revenge." Mycroft endured John's glare for a moment before the doctor nodded once and looked away. "As I thought. My brother needed you. He still needs you." He directed his attention to Sherlock. "A biometric based security system has already been installed at Baker Street. In addition, you will be assigned a security detail until such time as your enemy has been apprehended. If you try to bypass these security measures, then you will be brought back here. Do you agree to this, baby brother?"

John shot Sherlock a warning look. "He does, cheerfully."

The detective looked anything but cheerful. "Yes, Mycroft. I agree. What else? I'm sure that you have further plans for interfering in my life."

"You will undoubtedly push yourself too hard. You need to be watched, guided." Mycroft glanced at John. "Doctor, if you agree that will be your responsibility."

"I don't need a babysitter!" Sherlock was fairly pouting.

"That's fine. I've been doing that for years anyway." John looked seriously at the sulking detective.

"Thank you, John." Mycroft decided to lay out exactly what he expected from his brother. "You will defer to John in all matters concerning your well-being. You will not leave the flat alone unless John deems it okay. You will not take any cases without his express permission. And, if John decides that you need to return here, you will do it without argument." He waited for the explosion. It didn't come.

"I'll agree to all of that if you'll just let me out of here." Sherlock would have agreed to anything at this point. That didn't mean that he would refrain from manipulation to get what he wanted at a later date.

Mycroft rose to take his leave. "Very well, baby brother. I'll arrange everything." He knew his brother's acquiesce had come far too easily. One glance at John told him that the doctor knew it as well.


	22. Chapter 22

When the black sedan pulled up to the kerb in front of 221, Sherlock felt a surge of relief. He was at home at last. Now he could try to put this whole mess behind him. A small voice inside his head whispered that it wouldn't be that easy, but he told it firmly to shut up.

The biometric security pad was easy to operate. It only required him to place the pad of his index finger over the reader. That simple gesture released the magnetic lock on the front door and they were allowed to enter. Together Sherlock and John climbed the seventeen stairs to 221B and made their way inside.

Mycroft was waiting, seated in John's chair, and Mrs. Hudson was puttering about. She was busy putting away the few items that had been sent over from Sherlock's confinement. At the moment, she was returning the skull to it's home on the mantle.

"Oh! Sherlock, dear! John," Mrs. Hudson gushed, "It's so good to have you home. The place has been entirely too empty without you."

When she wrapped her arms around the detective, he stiffened involuntarily. Being touched my Mycroft was acceptable. Being touched by John was more than okay. Being touched by anyone else, even Mrs. Hudson, was decidedly unpleasant. At least he had known the hug was coming. If he hadn't... That didn't bear thinking about. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he said, extricating himself from her embrace.

John noted Sherlock's reaction to their landlady's hug. He cared for the kindly woman, but he wanted her to leave so that the detective could settle into the flat and get comfortable being home once again. "Yes, thank you. We're glad to be home."

Mrs. Hudson glanced between Sherlock and Mycroft. "I'll not have any fighting from you two, not on your first day back Sherlock, dear. Be nice, and I'll bring you some fresh scones later today." With that, their landlady left the flat, pulling the door shut behind her.

Sherlock reverted to old patterns of behaviour. "Why are you here, Mycroft? Don't bother answering, just go away."

His brother sighed. "I simply want to ensure that you have everything you need."

"Fine. Yes, we do. Now leave." The detective walked over to the window and looked out.

"Sherlock..." John warned. There was sadness in the doctor's voice. The two brothers had been doing so well until just a few days ago. He had hoped that maybe things had changed between them. Apparently it was back to business as usual.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock leaned his forehead against the windowpane. He didn't want to alienate his brother, not really. In fact, he actually wanted him to stay, but he couldn't admit that. Could he? "I'm sorry, Myc. I didn't mean that. It would be... nice if you would stay for a bit."

"I'll do whatever you like, Sherlock. I just want you to be okay." Mycroft cleared his throat. "John, you're things have been moved into my brother's room."

The doctor wasn't entirely sure what to make of that so he didn't say anything.

"It seemed only prudent. I know you won't leave him to sleep alone." Mycroft didn't say why, but all three of them knew that John's presence was the only thing that ever kept Sherlock's nightmares away.

"I also took the liberty of replacing your bed, baby brother. The new one is much larger. I had Anthea move all of your scientific equipment to John's old room. She has set up a rather nice lab for you, complete with a new fridge. If you can make my brother behave, John, there should be no more heads in the main refrigerator."

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes.

"You know about that?" John asked.

"Of course. It happened more than once. The first time was long before you moved in. I understand that Mrs. Hudson passed out when she found it."

Sherlock looked vaguely ashamed. "It wasn't my intention to traumatise Mrs. Hudson. I fully intended to warn her. I just didn't get the chance."

"Just like you didn't have the chance to warn me?" John asked.

"Don't be absurd. I knew you could handle it. You'd seen much worse in Afghanistan."

"Yeah, but not in my fridge!" John laughed. This ridiculous conversation felt so good.

Mycroft stood and walked to stand by his brother. "I do have to be going, Sherlock. If you need anything, anything at all, call me. I've always worried about you, " he glanced at John, "but you're in good hands now. Be good to John and listen to him."

The detective nodded his acquiescence and moved hesitantly closer to his brother. He reached out in an abortive move, almost hugging his brother, but that would be too much: too much sentiment and far too much physical contact.

Mycroft understood and gave his brother a small smile. "It's okay, Sherlock. I know."

This was good, John thought. Maybe the brothers wouldn't loose the renewed connection that they had made. If that was the case, then at least something good would have come from this nightmare.


	23. Chapter 23

It was their first evening back at the flat and it was comfortable. John turned on the telly and found an old rerun of Doctor Who. Sherlock complained about the ridiculousness of the show and John smiled.

On the telly, The Doctor said "Funny little human brains... How do you get around in those things?"

John looked sideways at the detective and gave a soft laugh. "So, you never watched Doctor Who before I came along. You expect me to believe that now?"

Sherlock blushed. "I think I'll be going to bed now." He stood and started to walk towards their bedroom.

"I won't tell a soul, I promise." John turned off the telly and followed Sherlock. "It will be our secret." The grateful smile that the detective gave him made him feel warm inside.

In their bedroom, they both changed into their pyjamas before climbing into bed.

Looking at the dark ceiling, Sherlock says, "I like David Tennant. I was looking for something to watch one evening and he caught my eye. I had to go back and watch all of the older episodes, of course."

"Of course," John replied. He felt good because this was the first time they'd teased one another in ages. "Just how many of your one liners are stolen from The Doctor anyway?"

Sherlock grinned and rolled onto his side to look at his doctor. "Enough to be getting on with. I suppose that you'll just have to watch it and keep tally if you want to know."

"Right, but you know and you just don't want to tell me."

"Obviously." Sherlock reached out and placed a hand on John's chest. He let himself enjoy the feel of the doctor breathing for a moment then brushed his fingertips downward towards John's groin.

John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrist to stop the detective's exploration. "I don't think we're ready for this, love."

An eye roll and huff were Sherlock's only reply. He twisted his wrist and broke free of John's grasp then moved insistently towards his goal. When his fingers wrapped around John's cock nothing happened. He didn't panic and his breathing was steady. "See, John. It's okay."

Letting out a shaky breath, John asked, "Are you sure? I don't want to... " He moaned because Sherlock was stroking him firmly and it felt incredible. "Sherlock... God. Just don't do... anything th... that feels uncomfortable." A small voice in the back of his head told him that he should stop Sherlock, but he needed to trust the other man to know his own limits.

Sherlock hummed an acknowledgment to John's caution and continued his ministrations. The doctor made the most delightful sounds and it made Sherlock feel good, actually good, for a change. "I love you, John."

"Oh fuuuck," John cried out as he came. He breathed hard and closed his eyes, riding out the waves of pleasure that rolled over him. **A bit not good.** He knew that he shouldn't have let Sherlock do that, but the detective seemed okay. Before he could stop himself, he heard his own voice asking "Um, do you want me to..."

Sherlock pulled off his T-shirt and used it to wipe them clean. He did want John to touch him, but he was afraid. He would never admit it, though, so he nodded. "Yes, John. Please." The detective steeled himself.

John's touch was tentative as he cupped Sherlock's face in his hands. He watched intently as he pulled the detective in for a gentle kiss. Sherlock didn't show any signs of panic, so John let his hand drift slowly down and brushed his fingers lightly over Sherlock's cock.

The detective jerked hard once and screamed.

"Christ! I'm sorry!" John flew backwards off of the bed trying to get as far away from Sherlock as he could. It didn't matter, the detective was still screaming and writhing on the bed. John had to do something. "Sherlock, can you hear me? It's okay. No one is going to hurt you. I'm not going to touch you. You're safe." His arms were held out in front of him placatingly.

Slowly, Sherlock quieted. He became aware of where he was and what had happened and he felt ashamed. It was infuriating, embarrassing, and he wanted to fade away into the darkness. John would be disgusted and leave. A low keening reached his ears. It took a moment for him to realise that the sound was coming from his own mouth. He choked it off and buried his head in his pillow.

Torn between his desire to help Sherlock and the need to flee in shame, John swept his hands through his hair. He didn't want to make things worse than they already were. **What to do?** "Sherlock, I swear I won't touch you. I'm just going to sit here on the edge of the bed. If you want me to leave..."

"Don't," Sherlock croaked. His thoughts were a jumble. **Please, John, don't leave me. I know you're disgusted, but please, please don't leave.**


	24. Chapter 24

Sherlock was looking at his hands. Well, at the ridiculous blue nitrile gloves covering his hands. They seemed to be a symbol of everything that he couldn't control and be hated them. Without thinking, he rolled them off and flung them across the room. He almost carded his hands through his hair, but stopped himself. The bloody gloves were necessary. A thought occurred to him and he found himself pulling his leather gloves from the pocket of his Belstaff. At least he could choose what gloves he would wear. Sherlock pulled them on and felt the tiniest sense of control.

Still, after the debacle of last night, something had to be done. John was abnormally quite. He was obviously wallowing in senseless guilt and that was preventing Sherlock from being able to think. The detective needed space and time, but how to get it? **O** John was still hiding in the shower so he could safely call Lestrade.

The DI picked up on the first ring. "What's wrong?"

"Why would you assume that something is wrong, Lestrade?" Sherlock growled.

"Because you called, you berk!" Greg growled back. "Now out with it."

Really, did the DI need to sound so sharp this early in the morning? Sherlock hadn't even been rude. Well, not very. "You need to get John out of the flat. I need to think. It's critical."

Greg have a harsh laugh. "That's not happening, mate. John won't leave you alone any time soon and I won't ask him to. You're madder than I though if you think otherwise. Why don't you slip off into that mind thingy like you do if you want to think. I've seen you do it before."

A growl rose up in Sherlock's chest. He didn't want a babysitter, but he had promised to abide by John's wishes and it was too soon to employ devious means to get around that. John would have to be lulled into a sense of normality first and last night had certainty done nothing to further that cause. He hated it, but there was only one alternative. "I'll call Mycroft to come over then."

"You've got to be kidding. How is that an improvement?" Greg hadn't seen them together often, but from what he had seen and what John had told him, that was a recipe for disaster.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He's intelligent. He'll understand what I'm trying to do and he won't talk or make unnecessary noise. Besides," he opted for a small bit of honesty, "I need to think about John and I can't do that with him here." It wasn't exactly a lie. He was going to think about sex and just how many ways he was broken and how he could fix that and that all came back around to John eventually.

"Alright," Greg sighed, "but only if Mycroft is there when I pick up John."

John liked the niceties, so Sherlock said, "Thank you, Lestrade."

"Yeah, well. You're welcome, then." He was a bit shocked to have been thanked by Sherlock Holmes. "I'll see you later."

Sherlock made a face, but it wasn't as bitter as it once would have been at the prospect, and phoned his brother. "Mycroft."

"What's wrong?"

With a huff, Sherlock asked, "Why does everyone ask that question?"

"If, by everyone, you mean Gregory and myself, then I would think the answer is fairly obvious."

Sherlock wasn't surprised that Mycroft had figured out that he had spoken to Lestrade.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of an actual call?" Mycroft sounded quite smug.

"I need John out of the flat for a while and Greg won't even consider taking him for lunch or a pint unless you are here to watch me. Obviously, I haven't broached the subject with John yet. He'll want to know I'm being looked after before agreeing." Though Sherlock was resigned to the situation, for now, he sounded far from happy about it.

"This is about last night, isn't it Sherlock." Mycroft didn't sound condescending or pitying, but undertstanding. "No, I don't have surveillance in the flat. It was just inevitable, what with it being your first night back. I assume John is blaming himself and you need space to think. Very well. I'll arrange to pick up Gregory and arrive at your flat within the hour. No need to wait until lunch. Don't mention this to John before we arrive. He'll have less time to worry that way. Goodbye, baby brother."

Well, that wasn't so bad.

Sherlock stretched out on the sofa and folded his gloved hands beneath his chin and thought. I was fine giving John a hand job. Why? He considered the many ways that he remembered being mistreated, though he didn't delve into his Mind Palace just yet for details or additional memories. Still, he didn't think that he had ever been forced to perform that act. He would find out when John was gone.

Sherlock did know that his captors had forced orgasms from his own traitorous body. He didn't like thinking of that. Whenever he did, he remembered their voices calling him a whore. He rolled over and punched the back of the sofa. He could hear them now. He yelled loudly trying to silence the voices. It didn't work. Sherlock sprang from the sofa, strode over and removed his violin from its case. He was playing by the time John ran, still dripping from the loo.

Breathlessly, John asked, "Are you okay?"

His only reply was a raised brow and a melancholy song pulled from the violin.


	25. Chapter 25

John sat in his chair pretending to read the paper. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself that he wasn't a complete arse, he couldn't shake the conviction that he was. His mind kept returning to Sherlock's scream of the previous evening. The only thing that kept him from complete self-loathing was the fact that Sherlock had still wanted him to stay the night. At the sound of footfalls on the stairs, he folded the paper and sat it to the side. When Greg entered followed by Mycroft, he let out a sigh. A single glance at Sherlock's unmoving form told him that both men were expected. "Hello Mycroft, Greg. What brings you to Baker Street?"

"I thought maybe you could use a chance to get out of the flat," Greg said awkwardly.

John looked from Greg to each of the Holmeses, taking in their expressions. Sherlock and Mycroft kept their faces carefully neutral, of course. His heart sank. This was about last night. Sherlock wanted rid of him. This was just an excuse. He and his brother would plot and John would be out of the flat in no time. "Yeah, right," he agreed with no enthusiasm. "It's too early for lunch. What did you have in mind?"

Greg glanced from Mycroft back to John. "How about a late breakfast?"

"That's fine," John nodded. He turned to Mycroft. "I suppose you're here as my relief then?"

Mycroft gave a half smile. "That's correct. Anthea has cleared my schedule for the duration. Take as long as you like."

The smile that John returned didn't make it to his eyes. He knew what was coming, but he could keep up the pretence. "Call If you need me, Sherlock. Come on, Greg."

Mycroft starred behind them as the door closed. "He thinks that you want him to leave."

"That's absurd," Sherlock said with a snort.

"But it's true, nonetheless."

Sherlock turned his gaze upon his brother, considering. "Perhaps... I'll make it clear that that's not the case when he returns." This was becoming a too frequent necessity, but John would want him to do this. "Thank you for the observation."

Mycroft inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I believe this arrangement was so that you could think. If you don't mind, I shall adjourn to the kitchen and see to some tedious paperwork that I have been avoiding."

A wave of Sherlock's hand sent his brother on his way. The detective retrieved his laptop and opened it. In moments, he had created an excel spread sheet. He couldn't imagine that anyone would approve of what he was about to do, well maybe Mycroft would understand, but no one else. John would be positively apoplectic. He would say that trauma and emotions couldn't be reduced to data in a file, but that was how Sherlock operated. He needed to see things spread out before him. If it was a bit cold and analytical, well so was he.

The top row listed sexual acts, John as recipient, and Sherlock as recipient. He had filled it out with Xs for items that he thought would trigger him and -s for items that he thought would be okay. There were far too many Xs on the spread sheet. How could be be sure of the -s?

Sexual Acts | John Recipient | Sherlock Recipient  
---|---|---  
Anal Sex | - | X  
Prostate Stimulation | - | X  
Intercrural Sex | - | X  
Oral Sex | X | X  
Tea Bagging | X | X  
Rimming | X | X  
Frotting | - | -  
Docking | - | -  
Hand Job | - | X  
  
Without hesitation, Sherlock delved into his Mind Palace and found himself standing directly outside The Shard's room. Inner John was waiting on him, ever present and uninhibited by unwarranted guilt. Their hands met and together they entered the room. As before, Inner John acted as an intermediary between Sherlock and The Shard, but unlike before, Sherlock pulled insistently. He demanded more memories. More. More. More. Faster. Insanely fast. Inner John passed them to him at a rate that the real John would have found appalling, but it worked.

Sherlock allowed the distant memories of the rapes to wash over him. They were similar in nature, all cruel, but limited in imagination. The senseless tortures were worse. The beatings, burns, cuts, stress positions, and sleep deprivation were mostly new memories. He was grateful for the buffering aspect that Inner John provided. The behaviour training was much as he had already explored but it still was disturbing even at such a remove.

Still he pulled. The detective pulled until the stream of memories slowed to a trickle and stopped.

Inner John stood and looked at Sherlock who blinked. He wanted more memories. "John..." he began, but John waved in the direction where The Shard had been. It was gone. Sherlock stumbled back only to be caught by Inner John who held him for a while. Finally Sherlock broke off the embrace and set to organising the plethora of data that he now had regarding his captivity. He didn't feel sadness at the passing of The Shard. How could he? That fragment of himself had existed in nothing but pain and now it was a part of himself once again, free to seek something more. There had to be something more. There was John after all.

After organising the memories on shelves in what would forever remain labeled in his mind as The Shard's Room, Sherlock returned to the real world. He had found nothing that would alter his conclusions regarding potential sexual acts between himself and John. Now he had to convince his army doctor that he didn't want him to leave and that it world be okay to try sex again. Though that second issue would take some time, knowing John. The man would regard it as unnecessary to their relationship. He would also want to wait as long as possible for Sherlock's sake. **How infuriating.**


	26. Chapter 26

John was shuffling his food around on his plate with his fork. That was usually Sherlock's job. At that thought, his throat tightened and tears threatened to fall but he fought them back. He wasn't about to let Greg see how vulnerable he was feeling. He wasn't that pathetic.

Greg was getting frustrated. He had been unable to engage John in light conversation. It was time to bring out the heavy stuff. "So, how is Sherlock?"

The doctor gave a slight start then masked his emotions behind a wall that would have done a Holmes proud. "He was doing well. From the way he was acting this morning, maybe he's still doing fine, but I guess you'd know all about that." His mask cracked and John gave a wince. "Sorry. That was uncalled for. I'm just... well it's been hard, you know? Then last night, well, I fucked up big time and I image Sherlock's going to want me to move out. He'll have to move in with Mycroft. Christ, he'll hate that! They'll probably revert back to old behaviours within a week." He rested his head in his hands. 

"I don't know what happened last night, John. Despite what you might believe, Mycroft doesn't tell me everything. I will admit that he probably has a pretty good idea, though."

"Of course be does. He probably deduced it. He's as scary as his brother like that."

Greg smiled. "Yes he is." He shook his head and got back on topic. "Whatever you're thinking, I don't believe that Mycroft is planning on you going anywhere. He seemed concerned that you would get that idea in your head and wanted me to tell you it's nonsense if you mentioned it. So, this is me telling you it's nonsense. You're not going anywhere."

John was shaking his head. "That's not for Mycroft to say, or even me, for that matter. It's up to Sherlock. I'll abide by his decision and no one else's."

"Maybe if, you know... If you want to talk... Well..." Greg felt incredibly awkward. He couldn't imagine what had gone so horribly wrong last night.

It was just too intimate, what had happened between John and Sherlock. The doctor just couldn't bring himself to share what had happened with Greg. He knew that the DI wouldn't be judgemental, he might even be able to offer good advice, but no. Absolutely not. "Thanks for offering Greg, but I just can't talk about it. It wouldn't be fair to Sherlock." He glanced at his watch. "Do you think we've wasted enough time for them to do whatever? I think I would like to go ahead and face the headsman's block. Get it over with, so to speak."

"Let me give Myc a call, just to check."

John managed a knowing smile at that and leaned back to wait. He looked and noted Mycroft's goons. They had followed then from the flat. Sherlock wasn't the only one under guard apparently.

"Myc," Greg said. "We were just wondering if it was safe to head back to the flat or if we need to kill more time." He listened for a moment. "That's good. That's a yes. Right. Good. Okay then, we'll head on back." He pressed end call. "It looks like we're good to go."

They paid, then made their way back to 221B.

John followed Greg reluctantly up the stairs and dragged his feet as he crossed the threshold into the flat. Much to his surprise, he was greeted by a very vocal detective.

"You can't leave, John. Get that notion out of your head. I need you. How could I cope without you? Who would feed me or help me drink? I need you here."

Looking up at Sherlock, John had a sad look on his face. "Right. I'll stay as long as you need me, then I'll go."

Sherlock looked frankly alarmed. "You idiot! You can't ever leave. I'll always need you. I want you here. I always have. I want you here so much that it is a need. So you have to stay. Forever!" He stamped his foot like a three year old and John managed a laugh.

"We'll see, you big toddler," John said.

With a pout, Sherlock replied, "I am not a toddler."

John looked to Greg and Mycroft, both of whom were suppressing smiles of their own. Things were by no means perfect, but they knew that John was no longer thinking of leaving and that was all to be added to the good side. 

"Come Gregory, let's leave these two to discuss... Things." Mycroft was being purposefully vague so as not to embarrass John or Greg. Sherlock wouldn't have cared.

When they had left, John turned to Sherlock. "So, if you don't want me to leave, then why did you want me out of the flat?"

The detective moved close to John and looked him directly in the eyes. "I had to think, John. Last night was not good and I had to understand why. I knew you wouldn't approve of my methods, so I needed you out of the flat."

John's eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"

"The first part wasn't so bad. I made a spread sheet of sexual acts. I marked which acts would be likely to trigger me and which ones wouldn't. Both with myself as giver and recipient. I needed to verify that information so I entered my Mind Palace." He held up his hand to forestall John's rant. "Inner John was with me and I drained every memory from The Shard. It doesn't exist any more."

"I... Fuck! Are you okay?" He looked hard at Sherlock's face trying to discern his mental and, yes, emotional state.

Sherlock met his gaze with equanimity. "I'm fine John."

For some reason, John believed him. "Alright. I suppose we can talk about it if you're ready. I can't promise you anything, but I'll listen."


	27. Chapter 27

Pausing in his pacing, Sherlock moved to stand by John's side. He asked, "Can we talk now, John?"

The detective seemed eager and vulnerable at once. John couldn't tell him no. He sighed. "Alright, but only if you actually sit with me on the sofa instead of pacing around the flat."

Sherlock sat next to John, his knee bouncing rapidly. The doctor noticed and smiled despite himself.

"Anytime you want to begin, love. I'll listen."

Sherlock bound up from the sofa and retrieved a laptop, his own for once, and handed it to John. He opened it to the spreadsheet that he had created earlier. "As you can see, I have created a spreadsheet containing three columns. The first column is a list of sexual acts. The second column indicates you as the recipient. The third column indicates myself as the recipient. An X indicates a high likelihood that the activity would be triggering. A - indicates that there should be no problem.

John looked over the spreadsheet with a frown. "This is good, as far as it goes, Sherlock, but you've left off some fairly critical things, but I can see why you would have left them off. "

Sherlock snatched the laptop back. After a quick perusal of the spreadsheet, he thrust the laptop back into John's hands. "I fail to see any omissions."

John began typing. "Well, it's the small things, Sherlock. The little bits that make up foreplay and, I don't know... the little everyday moments." His typing was plodding and the detective was getting impatient. "Okay. Now, fill this in for triggers." He hanged the laptop back to Sherlock.

Looking over the expanded spreadsheet, the detective rolled his eyes. "You already know some of these answers."

"But not all of them. Get to work." John softened his words with a smile.

Sherlock complied and handed the completed spreadsheet back to John.

Sexual Acts | John Recipient | Sherlock Recipient  
---|---|---  
Anal Sex | - | X  
Prostate Stimulation | - | X  
Intercrural Sex | - | X  
Oral Sex | X | X  
Tea Bagging | X | X  
Rimming | X | X  
Frotting | - | -  
Docking | - | -  
Hand Job | - | X  
Light Kissing on Skin | - | -  
Light Kissing on Mouth | - | -  
Heavy Kissing on Skin | - | -  
Heavy Kissing on Mouth | - | -  
Love Nips | - | X  
Cuddles | - | -  
Spooning | - | -  
Hand Holding | - | -  
Hugs | - | \- if I know it's coming  
Hair Stroking | - | -  
Pat on Bum | - | X  
Wandering Hands | - | \- above waist  
Lap Sitting | - | -  
Hand on Cheek | - | -  
Massage | - | \- above waist  
  
Sherlock cleared his throat then asked, "If I concede that you improved the spreadsheet, can we engage in some of the activities listed therein?"

The doctor regarded him, his head crooked to the side. 'You do realise that there is more to a relationship than sex?"

"Don't be an idiot, John. Of course I do, but we've been in a relationship for _years._  We just didn't acknowledge it. I don't want to wait for this any longer." Sherlock's eyes had turned an intense sapphire rather than their usual silver.

"And after last night?" John didn't think he could take another devastating failure with himself the cause of Sherlock's screams. He shook his head, thinking. "Can we go slow with this, Sherlock? I mean, really slow?"

Sherlock huffed, but agreed in the end.

The doctor smiled at his detective as he sat the laptop aside. "Okay then, why don't you lean up against me like you've been doing these last few days."

John leaned back into the sofa and Sherlock leaned into him. Bringing his arm up, the doctor began stroking his hand through Sherlock's hair. He could feel it as his detective began to relax into him. Slowly Sherlock shifted and slid down a bit against John's body. It was easy now for the doctor to tip his head forward and place kisses on the top of Sherlock's curls. Sherlock purred deep in his throat.

Sherlock was positioned low enough now that John was able to bring his hands up to his detective's shoulders. He started kneading them methodically, finding the knots of tightness and working to release them. "Is this okay?" he asked.

A happy hum of affirmation was his response.

John slowly began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, giving his detective ample time to object. When it was fully unbuttoned, Sherlock wriggled out of the shirt and tossed it to the floor. He grasped John's hands and placed them on his chest demandingly. The doctor gave a delighted laugh.

"So this is good?" John asked.

Sherlock turned to glare at him. The glare dissolved into a smile when he saw John's loving expression. He turned fully around in John's arms. The position wasn't ideal, but he didn't really care at the moment. Sherlock breathed into John's ear, "Do you trust me?"

John turned, trying to see Sherlock's face. "I trust you with all that I am."

"Do you trust me to take care of myself?"

This answer wasn't so quick in coming, but for this to work John would have to be able to trust Sherlock and the detective had put a lot of thought into the situation. "Yes, Sherlock, I do."

Sherlock pulled back, unfastened his trousers and lowered them along with his pants. "John... Please." His gaze, lingering on John's crotch, made his meaning clear.

Quickly, John was in the same state of semi-undress. He had also pulled off his shirt. Sherlock pressed him down into the sofa and rubbed against him. **Lube.** Sherlock scrabbled within the cushions for the bottle that he had secreted there. He poured a generous amount of lube on his hand and smiled up at John. This he could do. He glided the lube along John's length with his gloved hands and watched as John gave a shiver of pleasure. Sherlock then slicked his own cock and wiped the excess lube on John's shirt. It was closer.

Sherlock pressed close again, rubbing their cocks together and John pulled him near to press kisses madly to his neck, face, lips. The detective reciprocated in kind, fully aware that it was John that was touching him and being touched by him. There was no panic, only joy and pleasure. Heat built at his groin and it was pure ecstasy. He called out, "John," as he came and the doctor soon followed into his own ecstasy.

After a few moments of languid bliss, John commented, "Well, that wasn't exactly slow." They both laughed. Then he suggested getting clean. The doctor thought that showers were definitely in order.

Sherlock agreed, but looked thoughtful.

"What is it, love?" John asked.

"I just realised," Sherlock smiled wistfully, "I may be bent, but I'm not broken."


	28. Chapter 28

Three days had passed in relative quietude. There had been interludes in which John and Sherlock explored their sexual freedoms. They refused to look at them as limitations. Still, being home at Baker Street was making Sherlock itch for normality and he was getting bored.

While Sherlock was in the shower, John called Lestrade. "Hiya, Greg. Tell me you have something on. Sherlock is getting dangerously bored."

Greg sounded reluctant. "We do have a missing persons case. We're getting absolutely nowhere, but do you think he's ready?"

John carded his hand through his hair. "I really think he is. You have no idea how much he's changed in the last few days. Besides, I'll be there, just in case."

"Right, and I'll threaten my team within an inch of their lives." All Greg's team knew was that Sherlock had been in an accident, but he wouldn't put up with any snide comments. Not after coming so close to losing the younger man.

"Just text Sherlock what he needs to know and we'll be there as soon as he's presentable. And, Greg, Thanks."

When Sherlock entered the living room in pyjamas, dressing gown and gloves, John looked around and tossed the detective's phone to him. Catching it deftly, Sherlock immediately read Lestrade's text and looked at John in surprise.

"Are you ready to get back out into the world?" John asked.

The detective whirled and was moving so fast that his answer was lost in the flurry of movement.

John only caught snatches. "Forced... abandoned employment... no witnesses..."

In what seemed like moments, Sherlock emerged from their room, dressed smartly in black trousers and a nearly translucent white shirt. His gloves would look out of place because it was rather warm outside, but there was no help for it.

Suddenly, John was caught up in Sherlock's wake and it felt good. They flew down the seventeen steps and out onto the pathway. Both men were aware of Mycroft's minions moving into action to follow them, but neither of them acknowledged their presence. In short order, Sherlock had waved down a cab and they were on their way.

When the cab pulled up to the kerb, Sherlock shot out of the cab leaving John to pay. Some things never changed. The doctor caught up with him at the police tape where Sherlock held it up for him and they crossed under.

For once Donovan didn't say anything, she just gestured for them to follow her. She led them to a bedroom where Lestrade, Anderson and two other officers were busy looking for evidence.

The DI was standing with his hands on his hips. "Sherlock. John. Thank you for coming. We think our missing person was taken from here in her sleep."

Sherlock straightened and gave a nod then strode across the room. He bent and sniffed at the rumpled sheets.

"Lestrade!" Anderson whined.

The DI shut him up with a glare.

Next, the detective walked over and looked out the open window. "Is this the window the abductor used?" he asked.

Anderson rolled his eyes. "Of course it is."

Sherlock gave him his best predatory smile. "Wrong. You're and idiot, Anderson."

As John moved to put a warning hand on Sherlock's arm, Anderson burst out, "Lestrade, I'm tired of your little _pet_ talking to me like that! I won't stand for it."

Two things happened at once. Sherlock went stiff and his eyes glazed over and Greg rounded on Anderson, stopping just short of hitting the man.

"Sally," Lestrade said in a barely controlled tone, "escort Anderson off of my crime scene. Get someone else here from forensics, I don't care who, and clear the room until I come for you."

Donovan looked around the room, swallowed once, and took Anderson by the arm. "Everyone, out."

The room cleared and the door shut. Sherlock collapsed bonelessly to the floor. John held him gently by the arms, keeping him upright. The detective wasn't in full panic, but the doctor could see it growing, threatening to overtake him.

Sherlock was shivering. He could feel hands on his arms. He looked down and followed them up to see the face of the man that held him. It was John. This was a crime scene and the voice that had spoken the hated name had been "Stupid bloody Anderson."

"That's right Sherlock. Anderson the arse." John gave a half hearted smile which the detective returned. "Just take your time. Don't push it."

Leaning into his doctor, Sherlock began to speak. "You're not dealing with an abduction, Lestrade. Your missing person is trying to disappear."

"You can't possibly..." Lestrade caught John's glare. "Look, if that's the case, then there's no urgency. Go home. Rest. Get back with me tomorrow."

"The sheets on her bed have been freshly laundered, but not slept in." Sherlock plowed ahead. "The ground beneath the open window is covered with weeds which have not been disturbed so no one exited through the window. There is a thick layer of dust on her furniture except where knick knacks have been removed, most likely photo frames. More telling is the drug paraphernalia that I can see from this angle that she left under her bed. She's running from someone. Likely a drug dealer that she crossed."

John was looking at Sherlock with awe. "You really are amazing. You know that? Your mind never stops working. No wonder I love you so much."

Lestrade looked away to give them a moment of privacy. He was touched and overwhelmed by what had just happened. He didn't think he would ever forget a moment of it.

When he turned back around, Sherlock and John were standing once again.

"Okay," Lestrade said, "we can work with that. Now go home before John shoots me with that SIG he doesn't carry."

Outside, they stepped under the police tape and Sherlock raised his hand to hail a cab. Men came flying from every direction, tackling both John and Sherlock to the ground. A bullet ricocheted off the pathway just inches from the detective's prone body.

For the second time in just a few short minutes panic threatened to overtake the detective, but he could see John and they kept their eyes locked. The doctor's steady gaze kept him anchored to the here and now and he was able to analyse what was happening around him. The men pinning them down were Mycroft's minions. He recognised them from earlier in the day. They were speaking rapid-fire into earpieces, pausing to listen to voices on the other end.

After what seemed like ages, John and Sherlock were allowed to stand.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, please come with us," one of the minions said.

Lestrade had run up and started to protest.

The minion turned to the DI and spoke, "Detective Inspector Lestrade, your presence is welcome as well, though not required."

A black sedan pulled up to the kerb and Greg's mind was made up for him. "I'm coming." His tone was firm. He wanted to know what had just happened and why.


	29. Chapter 29

"No," Sherlock said, backing towards John. They were surrounded by Mycroft’s minions and it was making the detective’s skin crawl.

“We didn’t get the sniper, Mr. Holmes,” the head minion said. “Please, get in the car.”

John stepped into Sherlock’s line of sight and took his hand. “Come on. You’ve got to get under cover.”

Glaring at the minion, Sherlock growled, “Baker Street, or forget it.”

Listening to his earpiece, the minion gave a small nod. “Very good, Mr. Holmes. Now please...”

Without waiting for the detective’s assent, John pulled him toward the door to the car. Sherlock still hesitated, his gaze falling on the man holding the door open. In a flash of insight, John understood. His friend was rattled, though he would never admit it. Sherlock had recovered enough to be hiding things like that again. That was both a blessing and a curse. “Excuse us, would you give us some room?” John had directed this at the man holding the door. At his request, the man backed away. Finally, Sherlock moved towards the car and climbed in, John following.

Greg stepped up to the open door and asked, “Can I come along?” In truth, he had no intention of being left behind. He would follow in the panda if he had to.

After looking to Sherlock for approval, John nodded saying, “Yeah, get in.”

Pulling the door shut behind him, Greg joined the other two men. There was more than enough room for them all as the car was quite posh and John had sat as close to Sherlock as humanly possible. An uneasy quite settled over the three of them and the ride back to Baker Street seemed to take far too long.

A contingency of minions awaited their arrival. Sherlock rolled his eyes seeing just how many men Mycroft had on hand. It was complete overkill.

John reached across him and opened the door almost before the car had stopped. Getting odd looks from both Sherlock and Greg, the doctor hoisted himself up and slid across the detective. That way, he was able to exit the car first. Making shooing motions, John cleared a path to the door of 221.

Sherlock didn't know if he should be grateful or irritated by John's actions. He wasn't that fragile! Deciding to ignore it all, the detective followed his friend and soon they were within the walls of their flat.

The last to enter, Greg glanced down the stairwell once before closing the door. When he turned around, it was to see Mycroft waiting, folder in hand. The tension in the room was palpable. Sherlock and Mycroft were locked in an exchange of gazes. It was something John had seen many times, but it was entirely new to the Detective Inspector.

“I want everything you have on the sniper and the others, the ones who tortured me,” Sherlock finally insisted.

Shaking his head, Mycroft said, “I can't give you that, baby brother.”

“Then what is the use of you!?” Sherlock shouted as he turned and stalked to the window.

John looked at his friend with concern and just a touch of annoyance. He didn't often sympathise with Mycroft, but Sherlock would probably be dead if it weren't for his brother's actions.

For his part, Greg was staring at Mycroft. The other man had a skin tone that was somewhat darker than his brother's, but at the moment, he was remarkably pale. Mycroft's normally pink lips were pressed together into a thin white line. The DI wanted to say something, anything, to make the other man feel better, but he was at a loss for words.

Sherlock struck the windowpane with his gloved fist. He likely owed his life to Mycroft and he knew it. The new bond that had been forged between them was weak and he didn't want to see it broken. “I’m sorry. Myc.’ The words still tasted like acid in his mouth. He would never enjoy being in the wrong or apologising, especially where his brother was concerned. He turned around. “You do need me. Otherwise, why bring that folder in the first place?”

Looking at him long and hard, Mycroft extended his hand with the folder. Sherlock took it.

“Oh come on!” John complained. It didn't do any good as his friend promptly flipped the folder open and began perusing the information contained within. “You can't let him do this, Mycroft.”

The government official gave a bitter laugh. “And how do you suggest I stop him, Doctor? Put him back into protective custody? We both know he’d just break out and run off on his own.”

John ran both his hand through his hair and made a sound of extreme frustration. “Bloody hell!” He knew Mycroft was right.

“John,” Mycroft began, “I'm trusting you and Gregory to look out for my brother. I'll keep my people working to find the sniper and the man who hired him. I'll keep my security detail active, but you both know Sherlock. Don't let him do anything... Ill advised.”

Suddenly feeling very weary, John collapsed into his chair, rubbing one hand over his eyes. "Yeah, right."

Greg was completely sympathetic. Being one of Sherlock’s keepers was taxing on the best of days. Though the detective had made a remarkable recovery, he was still wounded psychology. It would take months for him to truly heal, maybe years. That was something that he knew Sherlock would never admit. Greg sighed. Why couldn't they catch a break?


	30. Chapter 30

Sherlock had climbed up on the sofa and pinned a ragged map of London on the wall. He added the photo of the sniper and connected it with yarn to a pin showing where the attack had taken place earlier in the day. The next item that he removed from the folder was a photo of one of his abusers. The fingers of his right hand clutched compulsively and the photo crumpled. A memory flashed in his mind. It was one that he had integrated from The Shard.

_“You’re broken already, aren’t you? Now I get to teach you everything you need to know. You’ll be an obedient and skilled little fuck toy,” the man from the photo growled in Sherlock’s head. “Our boss was going to have us kill you, but he’s quite impressed by how we’ve broken you down. He’s planning a very exclusive auction and you’re going to be the sole item up for bid.”_

Turning, Sherlock flung both the photo and the folder across the room. Papers flew in every direction. He collapsed into a huddle on the sofa, his face hidden against his knees.

Greg started to rise from where he was sat in the deskchair near Mycroft. The government official reached out and took him by the arm, glancing meaningfully in John’s direction. The doctor had already crossed the room and was sitting by Sherlock. John didn’t say anything, just made himself a comforting presence. Eventually, Sherlock uncurled and placed his feet on the floor, his head falling back against the back of the sofa.

“How about you use names instead? You know, on the wall,” John suggested in a conversational tone. “I don’t exactly fancy seeing the bastard’s faces looking at me all the time.” Had he said it with any trace of concern in his voice, Sherlock would have found cause for resentment. As it was, the detective gave a small nod and went to the desk to fetch paper and a biro. He wrote out the names of his five tormenters and pinned them to the wall.

Relaxing back into his chair, Greg let out a breath that he hadn’t known he had been holding. He had been in awe of how John handled Sherlock right from the beginning. Where the detective would have cut others down with a scathing remark, he readily acquiesced to John’s patient care.

“Amazing,” Greg breathed.

Mycroft gave a halfhearted laugh. “That’s how John wooed my brother;  with words of praise. Do you have designs on the good doctor?”

“Hardly.” Greg gave him a small smile. “Woe betide the man or woman who tries to come between those two.” He drew his brow down in concern. Mycroft had covered his eyes with the fingers of his right hand and, incredibly, they were shaking. “Mycroft?”

The government official withdrew his hand from his eyes and regarded Lestrade. “My life  _is_  crisis, Gregory. I shouldn’t let these things bother me, but this one…”

Lestrade knew what Mycroft had been about to say. This crisis hit far too close to the government official’s heart, the one that the man would never admit he had. “This is different, Mycroft. This is your brother’s safety, his very life is on the line. You’re entitled to let it get to you.”

“Maybe if I were anyone else, that would be true,” Mycroft scoffed, “but I can’t afford to think that way. Too much is riding on my actions.” He noted Greg’s dubious look. “It’s okay, Gregory. This is my life. I’m used to setting my feelings aside for the greater good.”

A sudden, irrational anger rose up in the DI. He wasn't sure where it had come from. “That’s complete and utter bullshit," Greg declared. "No one can live that way. Not without breaking.”

Mycroft’s face was unreadable. “I won’t break.”

“Yes you will. Don’t think you’re immune just because you’re bloody brilliant. Intelligence isn’t some magical protection.” Greg’s anger could be heard in his voice. “If it were, Sherlock would never have tried drugs all those years ago.” All at once, Lestrade became aware that there were two more sets of eyes trained upon him. His anger fled in a wash of embarrassment. “Sorry, Sherlock, but it’s the truth. You know as well as I do that you couldn’t handle simply  _living_ back then. It was hard for you. And God knows, what you’re dealing with right now is hard, but it’s been hard on all of us.” He transferred his gaze to Mycroft. “You especially.”

Stepping down from the sofa and away from the wall where he had been working, Sherlock responded, “I am very aware of that, Lestrade. Maybe you can convince my brother that it’s okay to show concern. Yes it is, Myc," he said in response to his brother's glare. "It’s not a weakness. It’s even okay for your  _friends_  to see when things are wearing on you. He didn’t have a problem with it when I was incapacitated, Lestrade, but he’s reverting to his old behaviors. It’s tiresome.”

Both John and Greg goggled. Sherlock had acted as a proponent for sentiment and for showing vulnerability. It was bizarre. Surely the world had just shifted on its axis.


	31. Chapter 31

Despite what his friends thought, Sherlock had always been fond of nights. Of course he got bored from time to time, but overall, the nights were his. Sherlock played his violin or composed. He experimented. He thought through convoluted cases. On the rare occasions when he heard the siren call of a seven percent solution, the detective unashamedly roused John with carefully planned catastrophes. It had all been good... before.

Now, both Greg and Mycroft had left the flat and John had gone to bed. There was absolutely no way that Sherlock could fall asleep, not with the information that his brother had provided flitting through his mind. Six men. Six faces. Six names. He had to find the common denominator, the link that had brought these men into his life, the name of the man who had hired them. Until he discovered that, he wouldn't be able to rest.

He was sitting on the coffee take, facing the wall over the sofa. The Union Jack pillow rested in his lap. Sherlock pondered the sniper. It was easiest for him to think about that particular man as he had no explicit memories tied to him.

Mark Evans. Sniper. Age 39. Single. Served time in the American army. Afghanistan. Iraq. Guam. That last one must have been a change. Honourably discharged, though his service record was far from clean. No known current employment or address.

Sherlock frowned. Evans had only been stopped from completing the job of killing him by sheer happenstance. Mycroft had admitted, reluctantly to be sure, that Evans had not even been on the radar where Sherlock was concerned. A chance meeting between Evans and an undercover operative had changed all of that. Said operative couldn't take the man into custody. That would have jeopardised a long term operation and world have resulted in unacceptable loss of life. Still, all it had taken was the mention of Sherlock's name in passing and red flags had been raised all the way to Mycroft's level.

Steve Connor. Ex police officer. 47. Widowed under suspicious circumstances. Fired for possession and assaulting a fellow officer whilst high.

The detective grimaced at that. How close had he come to committing the same act in years past?

They were different, though, Connor and Sherlock. Connor had gone on to deal in drugs, taking down established junkies and innocents alike. He got his kicks from dangling his wares before those who had become impoverished by their habits and forced them to exchange sexual acts for their drug of choice.

Sherlock would have hated him simply for that alone. For what the man had put him through, Sherlock hoped irrationally that there was a hell. Connor liked making people scream while he fucked them.

Sherlock gave himself a mental shake. Such thoughts would accomplish nothing. Connor was dead, as were his other assailants. They had all been taken down during his rescue. Mycroft's men (and Sherlock suspected John and Greg, as well) had been far too enthusiastic in the use of their weapons. It was a pity because surely one of them would have broken and provided the name of their employer.

Daniel Nash. Former RAMC. Sometime bodyguard. 32. Never married. Unlike Evans, dishonourably discharged. Most of his employers had been involved in shady dealings. He had been particularly heavy handed in his dealings with Sherlock. Nash enjoyed beating his victims.

Ed Phillips. No known past employment. 38. Never married. Had several brushes with the law starting at age 16. Served time for armed robbery. All muscle, no brain. Enjoyed "assisting" Nash.

Martin Bowers. Dropped out of uni. Had been fired from three jobs in under two years. 19. Gay and unattached. Junkie. Brought onto the team through Connor? Likely.

Sherlock stood and added a line of yarn between Bowers and Connor then sat back down.

John Clarke. Also former RAMC, though never served with Nash. Honourably discharged. Why remained a mystery. Very questionable service record. There had been an incident involving a young man in Afghanistan. The details had been covered up. Even Mycroft hadn't been able to unearth them. What did that say about his connections?

Sherlock hated Clark the most of all of them. His had been the photo that Sherlock crumpled in his hand. Clark wasn't content with beating his victims or simply fucking them. He humiliated them and dehumanised them one piece at a time. Clark had been the ringleader of the vicious group. He had coordinated every aspect of Sherlock's torture.

Sherlock threw the Union Jack pillow across the room. It bounced off his laptop which had been perched on the sofa, bringing the computer to the floor. He wished viciously that Clark was alive. A bullet to the head had been too good for him.

John walked tiredly from their bedroom, blinking sleep from his eyes. He should have been high on adrenaline. The crash of the pillow knocking Sherlock's laptop to the floor had awakened him. Perhaps John had simply been under stress for too long, stuck in fight or flight mode. The human body and psyche could only take so much, after all.

"Sherlock, come to bed," John suggested. He knew it was a futile request.

The detective waved him off without a word.

Sighing, John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, you're throwing things. I heard it from the bedroom. If you won't sleep, at least take a break. Eat something. I'll make some tea and open those biscuits you like, yeah?"

"I don't need coddling, John," Sherlock spat.

"No, you don't," the doctor agreed. "But you do need me to nag you from time to time to bloody eat. That's one of my jobs and I'm going to do it." He watched as some of the tension left Sherlock's frame.

Rising, the detective joined John in the kitchen. He took comfort in watching his friend perform the familiar ritual of making tea. While the tea steeped, the doctor opened the cabinet and brought out a package of biscuits. He opened them and placed them on a plate. "Talk me through what you've figured out."

Sherlock let out a growl of frustration as his picked up a biscuit. "Aside from a possible connection between Bowers and Connor, I have nothing." He bit into the biscuit viciously, one gloved hand flying to his head.

John reached out and removed Sherlock's hand from his curls. The detective hadn't even realised that he was pulling his hair.

"Give it time. You'll figure this out," John encouraged. "You always do."

As much as Sherlock wanted to believe that, he wasn't sure this time. Maybe he was too close to the situation to be able to see it clearly.

No. He wouldn't think like that. He was Sherlock Holmes and no matter what had happened to him, that hadn't changed. He was still a genius and with just a bit more information, everything would slot into place.

"I have to see the bunker." Sherlock spoke flatly. He knew that John would object. He couldn't show any weakness.

"No, no, no! Uh-uh." John had slipped into protector mode. "Absolutely not. You were tortured there, for Christ's sake. What could you possibly hope to learn that's not in Mycroft's files."

"Nothing. Everything." Sherlock's tone became intense. "You know my methods. I can find what others have missed. I can see things." He paused. "You know this."

John covered his face with his hands. He remembered the videos. The doctor had forbidden Sherlock from watching them and he had done it anyway. The detective would do the same with this. At least if John agreed to it, he would be there for the reckless man. "Okay. Fine. But we're waiting until morning. I'm not traipsing back there in the middle of the night. And you're telling Greg and Mycroft. Just in case."

"Nothing will happen. The site has been secured. It's perfectly safe." Noting John's glare, Sherlock added, "Fine. I'll text them."

The doctor nodded absently. Morning would come far too soon.


	32. Chapter 32

John was frustrated. Sherlock had waited until just past dawn then texted Greg and Mycroft, just as he had promised. Immediately, Sherlock bounded out of the flat. John was left with little choice but to follow.

A cab had already stopped and Sherlock was climbing into it. John muttered a curse then joined him. He looked around and saw Mycroft's security detail scrambling into action. Hopefully they wouldn't be too far behind.

Of course they were.

When the taxi dropped John and Sherlock in front of an old dilapidated building, the security detail was nowhere in sight. That didn't slow Sherlock down a bit. He headed straight toward the door at the front of the building.

"Sherlock," John called. "The entrance to the bunker is around this way."

The detective whirled and caught up to John who was already headed in the direction of the alleyway. His long stride had him soon overtaking the doctor. He reached the side door entrance to the building first.

There was a shiny new latch bolted to the door, but the lock that had obviously held it closed was missing. Sherlock flicked it to the side and pushed the door open with one fluid motion. The way before them was clear so the detective proceeded inside. He trusted John to follow.

Despite the condition of the place, there was electricity and, based on Sherlock's reclaimed memories, water. He had made it no more than a few feet inside when he realised that he had no recollection of the place. It shouldn't have been a surprise. He had been in no condition to observe his surroundings when he had been rescued and he had been drugged when he was brought there originally. "Which way, John," he asked.

Pointing to the left, the doctor directed, "just down there. Take the stairs. The bottom opens onto a door to the bunker. It must have been built in the forties. There's three rooms." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "You were held in the second room. There's a third room that opens onto another exit."

Nodding, Sherlock moved forward once more. He paused at the bottom of the stairs. "Did you bring your gun," the detective asked.

"What? Yes. Why?" John was already reaching towards the small of his back to retrieve his SIG.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. "This building was supposed to be secured. Where was the lock? How about the guard that I'm sure Mycroft had watching the place?"

Grasping the detective's arm, John urged, "Wait. Mycroft's men will be here any minute. We don't have to do this on our own."

Not deigning to reply, Sherlock pushed open the door. There, in the center of the otherwise vacant room, lay a man. "Probably the guard," Sherlock observed as John rushed to the fallen man's side.

The doctor lay his gun down and felt at the man's neck for a pulse. It was faint, but it was there. "He's alive," John said as he moved his hand from the pulse point and reclaiming his gun.

Sherlock bent down and retrieved an empty syringe. "He's been drugged." He strode across the room to the door opposite where they had entered, leaving John to care for the fallen man. The detective braced himself for what he would see when he opened the door.

The first thing that his eyes fell on when he entered the room was the table. The restraints that had been used on him hung limply from the eyebolts on its surface. Had he been less focused on the sight, he would have noticed the man standing just inside the door to the right. It was only the click of a handgun being cocked that grabbed his attention. Sherlock turned, in a daze, towards the ominous sound to face the man holding the gun. It was Nash. Before he could bring his mind to focus properly on the situation, a gunshot rang out in the small space. Nash fell backwards and blood quickly pooled beneath his head.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, panicked, as he burst into the room.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock said as he turned frantically, seeking the source of the bullet. It hadn't been John who had fired. It had been someone shooting from the doorway to the third room. Feeling the old familiar rush of adrenaline, the detective flew into action and chased after the unknown gunman. Sherlock plunged across the room and up another stairway. When he reached the top, he crashed headlong into Lestrade who grabbed him by the arms preventing him from falling.

"Steady, there, Sherlock," Greg said, concerned, as two members of Mycroft's security detail looked on.

The detective growled, "he's getting away!"

Lestrade looked puzzled. "No one came this way."

Sherlock turned back around, ready to plunge back down the stairs. Where was John? Gunfire broke out within the bunker and Sherlock plunged forward calling John's name. Greg swore and followed. Mycroft's men were close behind.

The first room they came to was empty. Even as he crossed it, Sherlock noticed that the door to a large standing cabinet was ajar. He berated himself for a fool. The killer had obviously been hiding in there. Sherlock had rushed by, oblivious.

In the next room, there was wholesale carnage. Two of Mycroft's men were down as was John. Sherlock's breathing seized. He rushed to the doctor's side and fell to his knees next to him. "John..." His voice was shaking.

A member of the security detail had already started applying pressure to the wound in John's arm. Another had called 999. There was nothing that Sherlock could do but sit by the doctor's side.

"I'm okay," John managed to say through clenched teeth. "The bullet didn't hit an artery or bone. I'll be fine." If he hadn't been so pale and if there hadn't been so much blood, Sherlock would have found the words more comforting. John fumbled around with his good arm and produced an envelope. "It's for you." He dropped his head back and sighed. His vision had doubled. "I'm a bit shocky. You know, I think... I'm gonna pass out now."

John's eyes closed and Sherlock fought down panic. John had been hurt far worse in the past, but the last few weeks had taken their toll on the doctor. He had lost a considerable amount of weight, sacrificing meals and even sleep to care for Sherlock.

The detective tossed the envelop to the side and placed both gloved hands to either side of John's face. "Please be okay. Do it for me, John."


	33. Chapter 33

Greg watched as John was carried from the bunker. The doctor was strapped to a gurney and the paramedics were carefully manoeuvring it up the stairs. Sherlock followed close behind. Running his hand through his hair, the DI reflected that he had seen his friends get hurt more times than he cared to recall.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," one of the men on security detail said as he approached, envelope in hand. "This was found with Doctor Watson. He gave it to Mr. Holmes just before passing out, but it must have been lost in all of the confusion."

With a grunt, Lestrade took the proffered envelope. It weighed heavily in his hand, smeared as it was with John's blood. The envelope was sealed shut. He flipped it over and there on the other side, was written "Sherlock Holmes" in dark green ink. His fingers itched to open the envelope, but he resisted temptation. Sherlock would tear him apart if he did.

The same man who had given him the envelop cleared his throat to get the DI's attention. "Sir, we've done all we can do here. Guards have been put in place at both entryways, new locks are in place ready for when we leave and we've gathered what evidence we could." The man cleared his throat. "We found this." He was holding out John's SIG.

Greg blinked a couple of times before asking, "why are you telling me?"

"We were told that you were in charge," came the simple reply.

Lestrade took the weapon. He made sure that the chamber was empty, ejected the magazine, and slipped it into his inner coat pocket. At the same time, he was thinking that it would have been nice if Mycroft had informed him that he had been put in charge. Truth to tell, the men that had been assigned to watch over Sherlock were quite efficient and thorough. It wasn't their fault that Sherlock was impulsive and reckless. Yes Sherlock had given them the slip, but that didn't mean that they needed Greg's supervision. "Take the evidence in for processing, wherever it is you do that, then file your reports." What they could contribute to the investigation would no doubt make it into Mycroft's hands within just a few short hours.

The man nodded then rounded up the rest of the security detail. Greg followed them from the bunker into the alleyway. He watched as the lock was fastened and a guard fell into place by the door. It was time to head to A&E to check on John. If he was lucky, he would be able to capture Sherlock's attention long enough to see what was in the envelope.

* * *

Sherlock was pacing in a frenzied fashion. His back and forth motions were annoying the other people who were waiting on news of their loved ones. The detective was oblivious of the security detail that had materialised upon their arrival at A&E. On his two hundred and twenty third pass by the nurse's desk, Sherlock caught sight of his brother, umbrella in hand.

Mycroft took in his brother's disheveled form. Sherlock had a slightly mad look in his eyes. The small spatters of blood on his shirt and face didn't help. Physically, Sherlock was obviously okay. It was his brother's psyche that Mycroft was concerned about.

Sherlock's pacing brought him to stand in front of Mycroft. "He shot him, Myc. He shot him and then he got away." He sounded like a lost child. Part of him was very aware of that fact and hated it, but it was distant and muffled. That same part of his mind was replaying earlier events. It was wondering why the drugged guard had been found inside the bunker. Not only that, but it berated him for allowing not one, but two men to catch him so off guard. That same part of his mind was shouting at him that John being shot was Sherlock's fault. The rest of his mind, the part that was in control of his actions and words, kept looping on the fact that John had been shot. Very little else seemed to matter. "He got shot," he repeated.

Mycroft's concern skyrocketed, though it didn't show on his face. Sherlock had not only started the glaringly obvious, he had repeated himself twice. "John will be okay," Mycroft reassured. He could say that with confidence. Mycroft had been kept apprised of John's condition even as he had dealt with a very unexpected crisis that had arisen.

John had responded well to treatment and was no longer in shock. Though the doctor had been extremely lucky regarding the path the bullet had taken, enough damage had been done that he had required surgery. His wound had had to be irrigated, the edges trimmed and the wound sutured shut. Mycroft had been informed that John would be required to wear a splint for quite some time. When he eventually exited recovery, he would be taken to a private room. That should be happening soon.

"Where were you, Mycroft," Sherlock asked. "You were supposed to be there. Why weren't you there?"

Mycroft drew his brows together in worry. Sherlock was using remarkably simple sentax. He seemed to be functioning at a diminished level. Something was definitely wrong. "There was a threat to an individual at the highest level, Sherlock." Normally his brother would heave known exactly who Mycroft meant, but he just regarded Mycroft with a puzzled frown. Perhaps the detective was suffering from mental shock. Or, more ominously, he might be experiencing some form of relapse. Mycroft wanted to get his brother into a private room, but he didn't want to leave him long enough to arrange it. Deciding to simply haul Sherlock along with him, he approached the nurses station. Before he could get anyone's attention, he heard his name being called.

"Mycroft, Sherlock, how's John," came Greg's inquiry. He hadn't expected to hear from Sherlock, the git would have been too wrapped up in worry to think of calling with an update, but he had hoped to hear from Mycroft.

"John should be exiting recovery soon. I've been assured that he is in stable condition. The doctors didn't encounter any complications." Mycroft hadn't moved his gaze from his brother's face.

Lestrade could tell from Mycroft's posture that something was terribly wrong. He glanced from Mycroft to Sherlock. The look on Sherlock's face was almost vacuous, a word he would never have thought to ascribe to Sherlock Holmes. "Um, Mycroft," Greg began, tilting his head in Sherlock's direction, "is he..." His voice trailed off, the question dying on his tongue. Sherlock should have eviscerated him verbally by now for his concern.

"The sooner we can get him away from public eyes, the better." Mycroft stiffened his spine. "I can only hope that matters improve once he and John have been reunited." He reached out tentatively, stopping just short of taking the DI's hand. "Would you see to Sherlock? I want to arrange it so that we can wait in John's room for the duration. I think that would be for the best."

Giving Mycroft a grim smile, he took the government official's hand briefly and gave it a squeeze. "Go make your threats, then. I'll keep an eye on Himself." The look that Mycroft gave him would have been undescernable to almost anyone else, but Lestrade recognised it for what it was: gratitude.


	34. Chapter 34

It barely registered with Sherlock when Mycroft took his arm and guided him along to the room that had been prepared for John. When his brother tried to get him to sit in a chair in the corner of the room, he let himself be coaxed into sitting. Even that had taken little more than a slight pressure on his shoulder and just a few words. Sherlock leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees and stared at the floor. It was covered with beige 30-centimetre tiles. His eyes travelled along the lines between tiles, back and forth across the room. The conversation that Mycroft and Greg were having was a faint buzz in his ears.  **John was shot.**  His eyes kept moving along the sharp turns and junctures of the tiles.  **My fault.**  There was another turn in the line on the floor. Sherlock didn’t dare close his eyes. He would see only John’s blood on the grey of the bunker floor. The line that his eyes had been following stopped at the bedside table. He let his eyes travel up the corner of the table to the top where they rested on a vase of flowers.  **Flowers for John.**  Even through the fog that filled his mind, something about that just felt wrong. There was no way that flowers should have been delivered to this room.  


Sherlock rose to his feet and crossed the empty floor to stand by the table. Mycroft and Greg fell silent as they watched him. The detective reached out with his gloved hand, stopping just short of touching a delicate purple flower.  **Wrong.**  His eyes skipped over each bud, one by one. Slowly his mind began to focus to sharpen as an unseen pattern made itself felt. Sherlock fought the stupor that had held him for the last few hours. “Calendula,” slipped softly from his lips. “It symbolises grace, grief or jealousy. All three?”

“What?” asked Greg with curiosity.

“Freesia is poisonous. China aster symbolises jealousy.” Sherlock’s slow speech picked up its pace as his eyes skittered over the flora. "Bluebell means grief, humility or constancy - only grief in this context. Delphinium is poisonous as is monkshood and monkshood means beware or danger. Weeping willow means mourning. And poppy means eternal sleep or oblivion.” Sherlock whirled, his mind fully engaged. “John! Where is John?!”

Mycroft stepped towards his brother with concern. “Sherlock, I told you that John is in recovery. He could be on his way to this room as we speak. Don’t you remember?”

Sherlock’s gloved hands flew to the sides of his head where he pushed. The pressure seemed to help him focus. He  _did_  remember, but his memories of the last few hours were dull, drab things devoid of dimension. “Yes,” he hissed, soft and low. “Are your men watching him, Mycroft? He’s not safe.”

While Mycroft assured his brother that John was indeed under guard, Greg eyed the vase of flowers. There was a card peeking out from beneath the vase. The DI looked around the room and found a box of Nitrile gloves in a dispenser that was affixed to the wall. He donned a pair then lifted the vase and retrieved the card. It was blank on one side, but on the other there was a single word: Run. It was written in dark green ink just like the envelope that was still nestled in Greg’s jacket pocket. The DI pulled out the envelope and compared the handwriting on it with that on the card. Unsurprisingly, they were the same.

Sherlock snatched both the card and the envelope from Greg’s hand. Apparently the consulting detective was back from wherever it was that his mind had taken him. Sherlock’s brow furrowed in concentration. The detective glanced at the one word written on the card, then handed it back to the DI. Sherlock turned his attention to the envelope which he now recognised as the one that John had given him at the bunker. He glanced at Greg. The DI must have retrieved it. Sherlock used a gloved finger to break the seal on the envelope and pulled a single sheet of paper from it. Unfolding it, he began to read.

_Dearest,_

_I hope you enjoyed my little present, Shezza. I took care of him for you. It was the least I could do. Besides, Nash was inept. So is his employer, Carlton. I was quite distressed when that amateur decided to put an end to you. So long as Carlton was content to break you, I didn't object. (See how good I am to you? I dropped his name like a piece of candy. Twice. That's my second present, Shezza. He's disappeared from my sights. Will you find him before I do? Maybe you won’t want to.)_

_You would've been mine when you came up at auction. I would have taken care of you and put you back together in my own image._

_I don't know if I can continue without a proper genius as my own little pet. Maybe when we've settled with Carlton (Race you!), I'll take you on as a project. I don't like getting my hands dirty, but I may make an exception for my darling Shezza._

_Kisses, Jim_

Sherlock fought the urge to rip the paper into tiny shreds. Instead, he thrust it and the envelope into his brother’s hands and began pacing furiously. Obviously, there was a new player on the scene, this Jim. The name might as well be a random scattering of letters for all the meaning it held for Sherlock.

The door to the room opened and John’s bed was wheeled into the room. Sherlock gravitated towards it and hovered as the nurse settled John in and made sure that he was comfortable. The doctor was awake, but groggy. He looked around blearily and spotted Sherlock. As soon as the nurse stepped to the side, the detective slipped off a single glove and reached out to tangle his fingers with the fingers of John’s left hand. It felt good and solid to Sherlock and was oh so very reassuring.

“Start him off with ice chips. When Doctor Watson feels up to it, he can drink this. Slowly.” The nurse gestured at a drink sat atop the bedside table. “Just make sure that he keeps that right arm elevated. It will help with the swelling.”

Sherlock hummed his agreement without taking his eyes from John’s face. Whatever this new threat was, he would protect his doctor. He would stay in control of his traitorous mind. The detective growled. His mind was his most valuable asset and it was failing him again and again: first, when it split during his captivity, next when he failed to locate the shooter at the bunker and finally here where it had seemingly gone offline.  **No more.**

 


	35. Chapter 35

John was grateful for the feel of Sherlock's hand in his. There was always an uncertainty in the doctor's mind when he emerged from anaesthesia. Upon first awakening from it this time, he had thought that he was back in Afghanistan recovering from his shoulder wound. When he had recalled that, no, he was now in London, his next thought had been that he had been drugged and kidnapped. Again. It was the slow, insistent build of pain in his right arm that had finally brought the memory of being shot at the bunker to his awareness. As John's wakefulness ebbed and flowed, so did his recollection. Sherlock's hand was an anchor to the here and now and the doctor didn't let go. There was a tension in the air that pierced even the drug-induced haze surrounding John's mind. He sat up far to fast, and a wave of nausea swept over him. God, he hated the after effects of anaesthesia.

"Get them out of here," Sherlock hissed as he held a bowl up to John's mouth. "I'll not have them in here, not with John."

Looking groggily around, the doctor saw no one but Sherlock, Mycroft and Lestrade. "What are you..." John began, confused.

"Hush, John," Sherlock soothed, "It's nothing."

Even as John formulated his protest that it was obviously something, Greg spoke, "I'll take care of them. See if we can lift prints, maybe get DNA from the envelope." With that, the DI took the vase of flowers, card, letter and envelope and stepped out of the room.

Mycroft let out a small sigh. When his brother had first disappeared, John had told him of an 'admirer' that Sherlock had attained; one Moriarty. Mycroft had instigated a very thorough investigation and had discovered James Moriarty. He had been a troubled young man, highly intelligent, possibly psychopathic and had fallen off the map at 22 years of age. A mere two years ago, the name had resurfaced in connection with a global network that ran throughout the darkest realms of the criminal world. Mycroft had hoped that Moriarty's fascination with his brother would fade. Obviously it hadn't. "Moriarty." Mycroft's single word hung heavily in the air

Sherlock's head snapped up from where he was soothing John's nausea with a cool, damp cloth. "How do you know that name?"

"I told him," John managed between dry heaves. "When you were taken. Thought it might have been Moriarty."

"What makes you think this," the detective gestured to where the vase had been, "was him?"

Mycroft stared at him. His eyes narrowed. For once, the British Government bit back the words "caring is not an advantage". He still wanted to shout them out, though. It had to be his brother's concern for John that was addling his mind, but Mycroft couldn't denounce it; not when sentiment had so obviously saved Sherlock's sanity and not when he himself was beginning to feel sentiment's pull towards one very specific DI.

"How many admirers do you have, brother mine?" One eyebrow had slid upwards on the British Government's face. Sherlock remained silent. "My investigation indicates that your so-called admirer is James Moriarty."

Sherlock looked stunned as he whispered the name from the letter, "Jim."

John had fumbled around, found the control and had managed to raise the head of the hospital bed. He leaned back, feeling less nauseous and more clear headed. "Would you two mind telling me what this is about?"

"I said it was nothing," Sherlock snapped as Greg reentered the room.

"Bollocks." John transferred his gaze to Mycroft. 

"A threat has been made against you, John." Mycroft pressed his lips together into a thin line. "It was delivered in a rather unique way."

"I can't read minds, Mycroft," the doctor complained. 

With a growl, Sherlock explained in his brother's stead, "A vase of flowers was waiting in this room. Each stem was either poisonous or conveyed an ominous meaning." The detective gave John's hand a possessive squeeze. "There was also a card that read simply 'Run'."

"Fucking hell." John dropped his head onto his pillow. The room was feeling far too hot and he didn't want to invite another bout of nausea.

"There was a letter as well," said Greg into the brief silence.

Sherlock tried to glare the DI down. "John doesn't want to hear about that," he warned.

"Yes, John does,' the doctor stated while giving Sherlock a glare of his own. "What was in the letter?"

"Moriarty expressed a desire to take Sherlock for himself." The distaste that Mycroft felt was evident in his words. "What he wants to do to him, I dread to contemplate."

Anger rolled through doctor in a wave. Sherlock had been through enough. "I'll kill the bastard if he comes near Sherlock," John growled. Maybe he wouldn't be as steady with his gun for a while, what with his injured arm, but he would still be deadly. "If anyone wants to harm him, they'll have to take me out first."

It was Greg that spoke the required, "I think that's the idea."

The pink fled from Sherlock's lips as he managed to go even paler than normal.

"It's not going to happen, Sherlock," Mycroft reassured as he moved to stand by his brother's side. "This room, while compromised earlier, is now completely secure as is Baker Street."

"I don't trust your people, Mycroft. They've made too many mistakes." Sherlock added a silent 'As have I' to himself.

"You trust me, yeah," asked Lestrade who was standing very close to Mycroft. "It seems I've been loaned out to your brother. I'll be keeping an eye on Baker Street."

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't trust anyone to keep John safe; not even himself.

The doctor spoke for him. "Of course we trust you, Greg. "It'll be good, knowing that someone's on the watch who cares." He shifted his attention to Sherlock. "Now, help me get dressed so I can get out of here."


	36. Chapter 36

Sherlock glowered at John who scowled back. "Don't give me that look," John admonished, "You would have walked out of here in your hospital gown by now if our positions were reversed."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up slightly in amusement. It was short lived. What the doctor had said had been true not so long ago, but now, a simple look from John would likely keep the detective firmly in place. Sherlock wasn't completely sure how he felt about that. If it were anyone else with that level of power over him, he would hate it. He moved to card his hand through his hair - his ungloved hand. His fingertips touched his temple and at the smooth glide of flesh on flesh, he froze. His heart gave a lurch and his vision went abruptly white. Hideous visions threatened at the edges of his awareness, but he fought them back. John. He needed John.

"...kay, Sherlock. Come on. Can you hear me?"

It was John's voice, soft, but urgent and full of concern, that reached the detective and pulled him back from the mental precipice on which he was perched. The whiteness receded and Sherlock gave a shuddering breath. "Yes. I'm fine, now." At the disbelieving look on John's face, he added, "It wasn't so bad."

Sherlock looked around. Mycroft had moved to within two steps of him and was stood with his hands resolutly behind his back in an effort to keep himself from reaching out to him. Greg's brow was wrinkled with concern and his hands were shoved in his pockets. John was holding Sherlock's hand. The doctor had gone pale, as pale as he had been while in the last lingering grips of anaesthesia. Sherlock growled then spoke, "Surely you can all find something more interesting to stare at." He pulled on his glove. "Mycroft, John needs clothes. Where are they?"

Mycroft cleared his throat and stepped back a few steps, his eyes drifting to the corner and the bag that was sat there. Sherlock followed his gaze then moved to retrieve the bag. "Anthea," Mycroft provided a one word explanation.

The fact was obvious to Sherlock, but disturbing. He didn’t recall her entering the room. She must have come while he had been offline. Unacceptable.  
Rummaging in the bag, the detective retrieved pants, a pair of pyjama bottoms and a ridiculously oversized T-shirt bearing a logo for Erasure's "The Innocents". It was such an absurd detail for Anthea to have picked up on. Christ! John hadn't thought that anyone knew of his fondness for the band. They had such a light pop sound, that he had hidden his liking for them for years. 

Mycroft and Greg stepped out of the room. John stood on slightly shaky legs and started across the room. He wobbled a bit and Sherlock steadied him. "We're in no hurry, John. Don't push." The detective's voice was full of concern.

"I need the loo," the doctor explained.

Sherlock helped him to his destination and back to sit on the bed after his business was done. He helped his blogger struggle into his clothes. Getting the shirt on over his splint was difficult, but it was aided by the large size of the shirt. John refused the slippers that Anthea had provided in favour of the boots that he had been wearing when he was brought in to A&E. The detective was about to call his brother and Greg back into the room, but a single word from John stopped him. "Wait." The doctor reached out with his good hand and grasped Sherlock's wrist. "Something's bothering you."

The detective plastered a smile on his face and evaded. "You've been shot, someone named Moriarty has threatened both you and me and someone, Carlton apparently, is still out there, wanting to finish what he started." His smile turned cynical. "Of course, something's bothering me."

"Bollocks! It's more than that." John frowned. Didn’t that just say something about their situation? "Don't lie to me, Sherlock, and don't hide things from me. This is too important. You're too important."

Sherlock wanted to reiterate their situation and hide behind it, but he couldn't, not when John was the one asking with that plea in his voice. He took a long shuddering breath. "While you were in surgery, my mind shut down. I couldn't properly think or act." His eyes fell shut and he forced them back open again. When next he spoke, it was a harsh bark. "It failed me! Again! When I need my mind most, it betrays me. You were shot because of it. At the bunker, I saw, but I didn’t observe. Mycroft had to make the connection between the flowers and Moriarty." The detective wheeled away. "Anthea was here and I don't even remember her coming into the room!" He was shaking in fury at his mind's continued betrayal.

John shuffled over and clung to him with his good arm. Their bodies supported each other as they leaned together. "Don't you quit on me, Sherlock. We can meet and overcome every obstacle that's been put in our way. We're not alone in this. Moriarty and..." he paused, trying to dredge up the new name, "Carlton will make mistakes. We'll catch them before anyone else gets hurt. Unless you quit. If you do that, then we're all seriously fucked. You can't quit."

Sherlock, eyes glassy with unshed tears, but face set with new determination, wrapped his arms carefully around the doctor. "You keep me right, John Watson." He dropped a kiss between John's brows then tilted his head forward so that their foreheads touched. There was a knock at the door and Sherlock called, "Come."

A doctor entered along with a nurse. Mycroft and Greg followed, the DI's hand resting at the small of the government official's back. Neither John nor Sherlock moved. The doctor cleared her throat and they broke apart.

"Doctor Watson, I'm Doctor Hale. I performed your surgery. Before I can discharge you, I need to give you a quick examination and your follow up instructions." John nodded and sat on the edge of the bed. The examination was quick and facilitated by the short sleeves of John's shirt. "Everything seems to be fine, Doctor Watson. The stitches will come out in a week. You'll need to wear the splint for two weeks. Give it twenty four hours, then you can remove it briefly to change clothes and to bathe. You're a doctor, so I'll simply say keep it dry, clean and, for God's sakes, elevated and take the medication that I've prescribed."

John smiled at the doctor as he took the proffered discharge papers and directions. "I'll behave myself, Doctor Hale." He signed where required, thankful that it was his right arm that had been injured, and passed them back.

"Yes, he will," came Sherlock's rumbled reassurance.

Doctor Hale nodded, smiled and spoke, "Good. I'll see you in a week, then." With that, she left.

Together, the nurse and Sherlock helped John into a wheelchair. His right arm was propped up with two pillows. They left with a small entourage that included Mycroft, Greg and several of the government official's agents. There were two black sedans and Anthea waiting for them at the kerb.

Mycroft caught Anthea's eye and gave her a sharp nod. He stepped to his brother's side. "I must be going. Business waits for no one, but I'm entrusting you to Greg."

Sherlock was about to nake a snarky reply, but just then, a young woman in ragged clothes approached. Mycroft's men quickly surrounded her and she called out, "Mr. Holmes! It's me, Karen."

The detective barked, "Let her through." He recognised her. She was a member of his homeless network. After a brief glance to Greg for approval, the agents allowed her to come near. She held out a single daffodil towards John. Sherlock snatched it fron her hand. His fist closed around it tightly, crushing it. Karen jerked back in surprise. "Who gave you this," Sherlock hissed.

Karen blanched. "A... a man. I didn't know him."

"No, of course not. What did he look like?"

Sherlock was looming and it made the young woman nervous. "I don't know! Tall, thin... blond, I think. He gave me the flower and a tenner and told me to come here and wait for Doctor Watson." She bolted.

Even as two agents moved to go after her, Sherlock called out, "Let her go." Karen wasn't the most observant member of his network. She probably had nothing more to offer. Besides, he knew all of her usual haunts should it turn out that he needed to question her. He felt the press of John's hand at his hip and turned to look down at the doctor. 

John appeared worried. "What does it mean?" He was looking at the crushed daffodil that was still held in Sherlock's fist.

The detective met his gaze. "Misfortune."


	37. Chapter 37

Having taken their leave of Greg just outside 221, John and Sherlock were safely ensconced in the familiar confines of their flat. The doctor was hungry, thirsty and too tired to do anything about either, so he sat in his chair with his head tilted back to rest on the cushion behind him.

The detective was torn. He needed to work on the case. He needed to take care of John. He began pacing. On his third traversal of the room, Sherlock glanced at the crime scene map on the wall. Grabbing a biro, he stepped up and scribbled the name Carlton on the paper containing a question mark. He thought of the flowers and their implied threat and he slammed his hand against the wall. A groan from the direction of the doctor's chair caused him to turn. John looked miserable. "Go to bed, John," Sherlock urged.

The doctor brought his good hand up and wiped his eyes. "Too knackered to move," he managed.

Sherlock walked over to stand by his blogger's side. "If you stay here, you'll go to sleep, then when you wake up, you'll have to deal with a stiff shoulder as well as the pain in your arm."

"I'll make a deal with you," John said as he eyed the detective's tall form. "I'll go to bed if you join me."

Sherlock made a face. He was sure that he wouldn't be able to slow his thoughts enough to sleep, but John could be positively stubborn about these things. "Fine," he snapped then proceeded to their bedroom. He threw himself down onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. It wasn't long before the doctor crawled into bed beside him, clad in only his pants, the T-shirt that Anthea had brought him at the hospital and the splint. Grabbing his pillow, Sherlock ordered John to lift his arm and he stuffed the pillow under it. "You're supposed to keep it elevated."

John uttered a tired "Ta" then reached out to pat the detective's hand.

Sherlock flung a leg over the doctor's thigh and rested his head on his shoulder. Idly, he stroked over John's chest with his fingers then flattened out his palm. There it was, the reassuring beating of the doctor's heart. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

John tiredly answered, "Hmm?"

"I should have been more observant. I should have realised... There was no reason for you to have been shot."

The doctor turned his head to look at Sherlock. "It's not the first time I've been hurt. Yeah, this time, it was worse than most, but things happen. It's not your fault."

Sentiment threatened to overwhelm the detective and he was determined not to fall victim to its more maudlin facets. Fragments of a memory flashed through his mind. There was a science fiction book that John had insisted he read. In it, was... something. He plunged into his Mind Palace and rushed to the room that contained everything he knew about his blogger. Looking around, he found the volume on a shelf and picked it up. He thumbed through it until he found what he wanted: The Litany Against Fear.

_I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain._

He wasn't afraid, precisely, but he was facing overwhelming feelings, nonetheless. The idea contained in the litany was a good one and Sherlock would use it.

The detective had a well developed mind's eye from the years he had used it to create his Mind Palace. He pictured rolling dunes surrounding him and, in the distance, the swirling winds of a sand storm. The blowing bits of sand were his thoughts and the winds, his emotions. The storm drew near then enveloped him. He felt himself buffeted as the storm passed, but didn't fight against it. He didn't rail. He simply experienced sentiment's fury. The storm passed and the calm tranquility of the desert returned. An uncommon peace settled over him. After a time, the desert scene faded away and he drifted off into sleep.

The peace didn’t last, however.

_Sherlock slowly became aware of his surroundings. He was cold and hungry and he hurt. Fingers twined into his hair and jerked off of the table where he had been stretched out. He hit the cold floor and fell into a sprawl, wincing silently. He couldn't have spoken if he wanted to. The fingers remained in his hair and they jerked him up to a kneeling position. He head was jerked around to the side and he gasped._

_John was knelt, a gun pressed to his temple, his face stoic._

_A disembodied voice spoke, "Pets have to be punished when they misbehave."_

_The detective, unable to speak or move, could only watch as the trigger was pulled and a bullet ripped through the doctor's skull. John's body fell to the floor and blood pooled around him._

Sherlock didn't wake screaming. He couldn't. He was just as paralysed now as he had been in the dream. Fleeing to his Mind Palace, he ran through its corridors, but could find no peace. He whirled around, panicked, then jumped, seeking the serenity of the desert. A storm raged, greater than the one from before. It swept over him and pounded him into the ground. His body felt flayed by the blowing sands. How long he cowered in the heart of the storm, he didn't know, but eventually, he stopped fighting it and the storm slowly abated. He could think again and, this time, he forced himself to emerge back into the real world.

John was still sleeping. It was a deep healing sleep and Sherlock was grateful he hadn't woken him. The detective watched the rise and fall of the doctor's chest for a few minutes then rose and padded to the living room to immerse himself in the case once more.


	38. Chapter 38

The next few days passed rather uneventfully. Sherlock tried to make progress on the case, but he had little new information to work with. There was the information that Mycroft's people had unearthed on Carlton, but he wasn't the detective's main concern. The others wanted him found, of course, but he wasn't a threat to John so he wasn't important. At best, he would provide a connection to Moriarty. Whether that be in the form of a witness or a cold corpse mattered little.

Sherlock took a deep breath and considered the time. It was late and John needed to be in bed. They had settled into a routine of sorts. The detective paused in his investigation for a few hours each night, just long enough to accompany his doctor to bed and get the minimum amount of sleep that John insisted was required. No words were needed. All it took was for Sherlock to move towards their bedroom and John would rise to follow.

Tonight was no different. Sherlock led and John followed. There was a bit of a struggle getting the doctor ready for bed, though it was made easier by the fact that he had taken to sleeping in the nude. Thankfully, the splint would be coming off in just a few more days.

Sherlock helped John get comfortable, placing his injured arm gently on a pillow, then he climbed into bed. The detective had taken to resting his head on John's shoulder and thinking. It was soothing and helped him focus. He rested his gloved hand on his doctor's belly, his fingers splayed. A small huff of dissatisfaction escaped him. He wanted to feel John. Sherlock sat up and removed his gloves, tossing them onto the bed behind him, then he lay back down and placed his hand on the doctor's belly once more. John had turned his head to watch Sherlock, one brow quirked questioningly.

"I just want to touch you, John. I... What we did that day... It was good. I want to do it again, I really do, but not like this, not while your healing," Sherlock's tone wasn't strained or tense. It was soft and considering. He tilted his head to regard John. "Can I touch you? Is it okay?"

The doctor smiled. "Of course you can. Whatever you need. Whatever you want." He dropped a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. "Though I don't know why you would want to. I'm not exactly at my best." He sniffed. "And I'm a bit ripe."

"You're fine. You smell like John."

They lay there, quiet, as Sherlock slid his hand over John's body, up his chest, down his side and back again. The detective hummed happily as he took his time exploring the doctor's body. There was no pressure, no need for more. Instead of the frantic, almost fierce, passion they had experienced the one time they had had sex, this was a quiet intimacy that Sherlock found oddly satisfying. From the contented sounds that John made, he did as well. It felt like a stolen moment of peace in the middle of a sometimes turbulent, but mostly boring hell. 

Sherlock's fingers found the scar in John's shoulder. He would have another one soon in his arm. This time, he had been near help and his life hadn't been in danger, at least not after the shooter fled.

"Sherlock," John began. He wasn't sure what he wanted to ask. "Something's changed. I can tell. You seem more like you."

"I think, maybe I am." Sherlock let out a sigh and let his hand trail lower over the doctor's body. The touch still wasn't sexual, though he was exploring more intimate territory. "I'm not fighting it any more." John looked puzzled, so the detective tried to explain. "I've been afraid for so long now. I've been afraid that I had lost myself. I've been afraid for you. John, I've been afraid of just breathing." He shook his head. "I realised that I can't do it anymore. Trying to deny how I feel. Avoiding it. Shutting down." He ran his fingers along the crease in John's thigh. "So, when it gets to be too much, I just... let myself feel it all until it subsides." Sherlock let out sigh. "I'm not saying that I'm fixed, John, far from it, but maybe that's alright. I don't have to be fixed to do what needs to be done. I just have to be able to function. Besides, I have you. You'll help me heal."

John dropped another kiss on Sherlock's forehead, amazed at the detective's self awareness and willingness to talk. "All we have to do is make sure you have the time to do it." His tone turned fiercely protective. "You'll have that time, Sherlock. I promise you."

"Tomorrow, I want to go to The Yard. Lestrade has crime scene photos that he hasn't let me see. If I'm there, he won't be as likely to refuse letting me see them."

"You mean, Mycroft won't be there to pressure him," John gave a half-hearted laugh.

"Mm, same thing." Sherlock pondered for a moment. "Isn't it strange? Everything goes to hell around us all and somehow they find each other, just like we did. Why do you suppose that is?"

The doctor was fighting to stay awake, but it was a loosing battle, what with the pain meds and Sherlock's soothing touch. "Life's too short and we've had our noses rubbed in it." His eyes drifted shut. "None of us want to waste anymore time playing games."

"I'm glad, John," came Sherlock's reply. He thought about tomorrow and his plans for The Yard. He thought about next week, next month, next year. As the doctor drifted off to sleep beside him, Sherlock let himself relax. He slept long hours that night, uninterrupted by dreams.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The crime scene is greusome, but I don't go into detail. Still, be warned.

The next morning, they were woken by the insistent ringing of Sherlock's mobile. The detective groped for the source of the sound in the darkness, only to scowl ot the offending device when he read the caller ID. It was Donovan. In all the years he had known her, he had received precisely two texts from the woman and exactly two fewer calls than that. This was a first. She must be desperate. He sighed and swiped his finger across the screen to pick up. "Sally," he drawled.

Sounding very stressed and with an under current of anger, she demanded, "Get down here, Freak. This has something to do with you. Don't try to deny it. My team was working the crime scene when a bunch of suited goons showed up and hustled us out of the building. Lestrade was with them and he looked like shit. It's the first time I've seen him in weeks and he barely spoke to me. The suits didn’t give him time. It's the work of your creepy brother. I know it is, so get your arse down here and do something about it."

Sherlock waited, seeing if she had wound down. When it became obvious that she wasn't going to say anything further, he replied, "I assure you, Sally, if it were my brother's involvement, I would have been notified." His phone buzzed, indicating a second incoming call, as expected. He would have to tease Mycroft for letting Sally get to him first. "Why should I get involved?"

"Didn’t you hear me, Freak? Lestrade looks like hell. I don't know what's been going on and I'm not asking, but I know that you owe him one. Show it and get down here."

This was one of those moments that John was so fond of, a chance to earn a bit of goodwill. The detective didn’t care one way or the other, but John did. He'd be going to the scene anyway, but Sally didn’t have to know that. "Fine. Text me the address." As he was hanging up, his phone buzzed again. This time it was a text from Leatrade, informing him of the murder and providing the address. He ignored the incoming text from Sally that followed.

Sherlock climbed out of bed, getting dressed quietly and efficiently. John cracked his eyes open. "Where are you going?" he asked groggily.

"Crime scene," came the short answer.

"Crime scene," the doctor repeated incredulously. "With everything that's going on, you're going to a crime scene."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if to say, "You really are an idiot. I can't comprehend why I love you." Out loud, he said, "It's pertinent to our current circumstances, obviously."

"Obviously," John repeated, as he too climed from bed. He knew his continued repetitions would be annoying Sherlock, but it was far too early in the morning for the detective to expect actual coherence.

"Why are you getting dressed, John?" The detective's tone was slightly chiding.

"Because I'm coming with you, you git."

"No you're not. You're injured. You'll be staying here." His tone brooked no argument.

John wasn't having any of it. He didn't argue, instead he just kept getting dressed. He struggled briefly with the splint, removing it long enough to pull a shirt over his arm and replacing it, then he strode out into the living room. Sherlock was waiting, his expression stony, but with the doctor's coat held out for him to put it on. John slipped his left arm into the coat and let Sherlock drape the other side over his shoulder. "Ta. Shall we, then?"

The detective wanted to argue further, but John could be just as stubborn as he, so there really was no point. Sherlock swooped out the door and down the stairs, the doctor following in his wake.

* * *

At the crime scene, Greg greeted them with two pair of blue coveralls that matched the ones he was already wearing. Sherlock sniffed disdainfully.  
"Trust me, you'll want them," he said, shaking his head ruefully. "It's a mess. The worst I've ever seen."

John sighed. "Just put them on Sherlock," he said as he reached for one of the proffered garments.

Sherlock shrugged out of his Belstaff, handing it to one of the omnipresent suits and resentfully donned the coverall. Greg helped John do likewise, zipping them up as best he could over the doctor's sling.

"The body?" Sherlock asked.

Greg motioned down the hallway. "Right through there."

The detective's expression took on a look of glee even as John's stomach heaved. There was blood everywhere, not just blood but viscera. The doctor shuddered and swallowed hard.

Sherlock went into action with enthusiasm. "Hanged, drawn and quartered. Well, hanged and quartered anyway. I never thought I would get to see it."

"A bit not good, Sherlock," John admonished.

The detective ratcheted down his obvious enthusiasm as he scanned the room for body parts. "The head," he said, whirling around. "Where's the head, Lestrade?"

"There's been no sign of it." Greg moved to shove his hands in his pockets then remembered he had the coveralls on.

"Oh, wonderful! Have Mycroft's men check the bridges for it, likely on a spike."

"What?" Greg and John had spoken at the same time.

"It was traditional for traitors to be hanged until the point of near death. They were taken down and eviscerated whilst still alive. There are records of men, still conscious at that point, watching as their entrails were burned. Next, their heart was removed and the body decapitated and quartered. The head was traditionally displayed on a spike on a bridge as a warning to other would be traitors." The detective looked around. "The flowers? Where are they?"

Lestrade sighed. Of course Sherlock knew there had been flowers. "Out back. On the doorstep."

The detective was off in a flash. Kneeling down, he identified the botanica that had been left for him: pink larkspur - fickleness, mock orange - deceit, and interesting, a flytrap - again, deceit. Off to the side was a lone pink camellia - longing for you. Judging by the scraps of clothing that were found with the body, the victim had been homeless. The nature of his death and the message delivered by the flowers suggested that he knew the man. He was likely one of the irregulars and must have betrayed his confidence. Moriarty was leaving him a gift, just like a cat leaving a mouse on its owner's doorstep. He stood and brushed his gloved hands together with distaste. Both John and Greg had joined him. "I'll need to see the head, for identification."

"Right. Wait, what?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. "He's one of mine.


	40. Chapter 40

They were on the Millennium Bridge staring at the head that was impaled on a makeshift spike. The image was a disturbing one, and everyone was oddly silent.

Sherlock backed away from the disemdbodied head, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. He was marginally surprised not to have found another message delivered in flowers, but then, perhaps Moriarty felt his message had already been made plain. "I don't know how to do this," he whispered.

Frowning, uncertain he had heard correctly, John reached out and placed his hand on Sherlock's arm. The detective shrugged him off violently.

"He's dead because of me!" Sherlock was shouting and couldn't make himself stop. "He went by Tony. And I don't care what Moriarty implied, he wouldn't have betrayed me. Not unless..." The detective wheeled about and stalked over to Lestrade. "There would have been a woman, 23, brown hair, green eyes. She had a moon shaped scar under her right eye from where her father beat her when she was younger. A tattoo near her collar bone of a black cat. Has her body been found?"

Lestrade blinked, not knowing the answer.  
Sherlock growled with frustratin, the shouted, "What is the use of you?!" What was the use of any of this?

Without thinking, Greg shouted back, "Damn it all! I don't bloody know! I've been dragged all over London by your brother for weeks like he has me on a bloody leash. Would you see to this, Gregory. There's this little matter, Gregory. Keep my brother safe, Gregory. The only contact I've had with the Yard was when I had to be the bastard that walks up to a crime scene and says, 'This is no longer your concern.' So you can give me a fucking break!" Lestrade clamped his mouth shut in horror at his outburst. He turned and walked to the nearest car, placed his hands on the boot and rested his full weight on them.

Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He didn't look at John, he didn't want to see the recrimination there. He walked over to stand a few feet behind Lestrade and waited.  
Greg heaved a sigh, then stood up straight and turned around to face Sherlock. "Look, I'm s..."

The detective cut him off. "Don't. I deserved that."

"No."

"Yes, I did. I may be... cracked, but I'm not going to shatter just because you raise your voice at me." Sherlock had learned things from his kidnapping and subsequent abuse, chief amongst them was he needed friends, and that meant actually communicating. He loathed it, but there it was. "You worry that you'll do or say something wrong, but you don't have it in you to do or say the kind of things that would hurt me."

Greg shook his head. "That's..."

Sherlock interrupted him again. "You're Exhausted. Your eyes are sunken and appear bruised, so you haven't slept in at least 36, no, 48 hours. When was the last time you ate? You had a sandwich late last night, skipped breakfast and have been regretting it ever since. Missed lunch, too. You've always been a fit man, handsome, wear your age well, but there are lines at the corners of your eyes. Stress. Call Mycroft. Tell him to get someone he trusts to relieve you for the next two days. He'll protest. Tell him you're no use to anyone in this state. Hang up. Sleep for at least 14 hours, then call him back. Make him come to your flat and take care of you. Remind him you need each other."

Greg gave a weary smile. That little summary had sounded almost like the Sherlock of old, except that Sherlock wouldn't have cared how stretched thin he was. "Yeah. Right. I'll do that, but I'll have someone search the records for the body you described. Do you have a name?"

Sensing the storm had passed, John joined the two men. Sherlock glanced his way and smiled reflexively then looked back at Lestrade. "She went by Kitty. Nothing else." He frowned. "Kitty didn't talk to anyone, even Tony. He would have done anything to protect her."

"He was her boyfriend, then," John commented.  
Sherlock shook his head in the negative. "No, he was her friend, her protector." He unconciously reached out and took John's hand in his, taking comfort from the presence of the doctor's touch through the leather of his glove. "If he did betray me, it would have been to protect her. They kidnapped Kitty, threatened him, when they had what they wanted, they killed her and left him to suffer."

"Who are 'they'?" John asked quietly. "Moriarty's men?"

Sherlock's grip tightened on John's hand. "No. Nash's. This goes back to the beginning. Tony was the one who tipped me off that day, when I went missing. I was an idiot. I didn't realise... He told them where I was going."

The doctor looked over his shoulder at the severed head. "Then he deserved what he got."

"No," Sherlock disagreed. "What wouldn't you do to protect those you care about?" He raised their joined hands and looked at them meaningfully.

"Sherlock Holmes, lecturing me on compassion." John sighed. "You're right, of course."

The detective walked away, not letting go of John's hand, but dragging him along.

"Oi!" Greg called. "Where are you going?"  
Sherlock didn't turn, but he called out an explanation, "I'm taking John home. You're not the only one who's exhausted."

Tugging on Sherlock's hand, the doctor paused. "I'm not exhausted."

"I know." The detective was looking into the distance, his expression oddly haunted.

"You said something earlier. You said you don't know how to do this."

Sherlock dropped John's hand and started to walk away. The doctor wasn't having it. He grasped Sherlock's arm in a tight grip. The detective stiffened.

"Let go," Sherlock's ground out through gritted teeth.

"Jesus! I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean..."

"It's fine." The detective heaved a sigh and turned to face John. "I don't know how to keep them safe. Tony isn't the only member of my network Moriarty's involved in, there was the girl at the crime scene. He was taunting me." He shook his head. "I can send out a general warning through my network, but those people are homeless for a reason. They don't always make the wisest decisions. The only way to truly protect them is to stop Moriarty."

"Then that's what we'll do." John's voice was full of conviction, but he could see that Sherlock didn't believe it. "What you did earlier today and tonight... It was almost like watching you from, well, from before. Watching you deduce Greg's exhaustion was wonderful. I know that's a bit not good, considering the circumstances, but I loved it. You're getting yourself back."

Sherlock gesticulated wildly. "Don't you see? I keep feeling things. How am I supposed to work like this."

"You great idiot." John took Sherlock by the hand. "You've always felt things, you just didn't let it show. You're human and you've been through hell. It's still early. Give yourself time."

Shoulders hunching, Sherlock looked at John. "I just hope we have the time it takes."


	41. Chapter 41

Sherlock had no trouble hailing a cab. He and John climbed in and the detective gave an address, it wasn't Baker Street.

"Where are we going?" John asked as he took Sherlock's gloved hand in his own.

"I told you, my network is being targeted. There are key individuals I need to warn. They will be able to spread the word about the Moriarty threat." Sherlock needed to touch John. He extricated his hand from the doctor's and removed his glove, then recaptured John's hand.

The cab stopped and Sherlock indicated that John should wait for him in it. The detective approached a young homeless woman and spoke to her in low quiet tones. The doctor watched as Sherlock pressed something into her hand, cash, John guessed, then stepped away and returned to climb into the cab. Sherlock rattled off another address and the cabbie pulled into traffic once more. This pattern was repeated no less than six times before the detective gave the cabbie the address for Baker Street.

"That's all I can do," Sherlock said with a frown. "The homeless' lives are fraught with danger enough without my bringing it on them." He let out a shuddering sigh as John took his still ungloved hand.

"I've never realized how much you care about them. They're not just a tool, are they?" The doctor's voice was full of amazed wonder.

"You weren't meant to. No one was. It's safer for them that way." Sherlock's ached to stretch out his legs in front of him, but couldn't in the small space of the cab. Instead, he allowed himself the luxury of leaning on John and resting his head on his shoulder. "Life on the streets isn't easy, John. Some of my contacts, the older ones, were of a great deal of help to me when I was younger. I doubt we would have ever met if it weren't for them."

John went stiff, his thoughts suddenly sent reeling. It sounded as if Sherlock were speaking from experience, but surely Mycroft or Greg would have mentioned if Sherlock had ever lived on the streets. Surely...

"Yes," the detective said wearily. "What you're thinking, yes. I lived amongst the homeless, but for a very short period of time. It's hardly the worst that I've endured, however, and it's long in the past. Long enough ago that Lestrade doesn't even know about it. It was when I ran away from home. Doesn't matter."

Sherlock's phone buzzed, indicating an incoming text. He pulled it out of his pocket and read the message. The speed with which the information had been found was gratifying, the information itself, though not unexpected, was disheartening. He handed the phone to John.

_Body matching the description of Kitty was found over eleven weeks ago, two days before your disappearance. Sorry. - GL_

After the doctor read the message, he handed the phone back. "Well, fuck. I'm sorry."

The phone buzzed again. Sherlock read the message and his eyes filled with tears.

_She hadn't been raped. Whoever killed her did a clean, efficient job. - GL_

Those words of comfort had been unlooked for, but were greatly appreciated. Sherlock hadn't wanted to think about how Kitty might have suffered. He had shoved it firmly from his mind, but it would have visited him in the dark of the night. Now, thanks to Greg, it wouldn't.

"Babe?" John asked, his voice full of concern.

Sherlock shook his head and tucked his phone away. "Nothing. Just remind me to tell Greg thank you." He wiped the tears from his eyes as the cab pulled up outside 221.

As they climbed from the cab, the detective wasn't surprised to see flowers on the doorstep. This bouquet was for him. Bluebells, marigolds and yellow tulips - constancy, affection and hopeless love. Even as John paid the cabbie, Sherlock had climbed the steps and crushed the flowers beneath his heel. "You would think Mycroft's people could keep him from leaving these little 'gifts' about the place," Sherlock spat. He kicked the crushed flowers off the steps and they landed on the pathway.

John came up beside him and handed him his glove. "You left it in the cab."

The detective, after activating the biometric lock, pulled the glove on. He suddenly felt a deep hatred for his gloves, gloves that he once had loved. Sherlock kicked the door open and stalked up the stairs. Once he reached their flat, he threw himself down on the sofa. He hadn't taken his coat off, just snugged it tighter around himself.

After hanging up his own coat, John went through to the kitchen. He put on the kettle and leaned against the side while he waited for it to boil. Nighttime was a long time off, but he couldn't help but think that tonight would be a rough one. Try as he might, he hadn't found a way to make the evenings easier on Sherlock. That wasn't surprising, really, he'd never been able to prevent his own nightmares about Afghanistan. The best John could do was be there when Sherlock inevitably woke crying. God, _John_ wanted to cry. When the water had boiled, the doctor finished making tea, using the time it took for it to steep to school his expression to something close to normal.

"So, what now?" John asked as he set a mug a tea on the coffee table in front of Sherlock.

"Now, I think of every person who has ever crossed me." Sherlock ran his gloved hands through his hair. "Moriarty is trying to woo me. He'll save Carlton for last, sort of like an engagement gif..." The detective sprang up and pulled out his phone, calling Greg. The moment the DI answered, Sherlock bagan talking. "Lestrade, locate Donovan and Anderson. They're in extreme danger."


	42. Chapter 42

John grabbed Sherlock by the arm before the detective could dart out the door. "Wait. What did Lestrade say?"

"He's checking on them both." The detective waved the question off. "It doesn't matter anyway. Assuming Moriarty knows the details of our interactions, I expect Donovan to be missing. There's no need to wait for confirmation. We need to get to her flat now."

With a grimace, John grabbed his coat and shrugged it on. "Just... Carlton is still out there. Don't forget that, please."

"How can I when Mycroft's people follow us everywhere we go." He didn't sound resentful, merely resigned.

Their security entourage was, at least, discreet and could be forgotten about at times, going so far as to allow Sherlock and John the use of public cabs. The doctor wondered idly if the cabbies they had encountered recently were actually part of the security team. Probably, he decided. This idea seemed to be confirmed by the almost magical appearance of a cab as they stepped out on the pavement. Once in the cab, Sherlock gave the cabbie Donovan's address. The doctor didn't waste time wondering how he knew it.

Sherlock's phone rang. Answering it, his already grim expression grew grimmer. "We're already on our way. Has Anderson been brought into protective custody?" He nodded to himself. "Good. You also need to locate a Sebastian Wilkes. Bring him in as well." There was a pause as he thought. "And Victor Trevor. That's everyone I can think of."

John's brow furrowed as he regarded the detective. "Donovan is missing?"

Sherlock nodded.

John swore and hit the seat with his fist. "So, you were right. God dammit." He took a deep breath, then thought to ask, "Who are Sebastian and Victor?" He'd never heard mention of the two men.

Almost, Sherlock brushed the question away, but he didn't. With a sigh, he resigned himself to sharing, at least in brief, the more unpleasant memories of his youth. "Sebastian was nothing more than a bully, but he made my life hell during my teenage years. Victor... Victor was the only other person I ever cared about besides you. I thought we were in a relationship. It turned out he was using me to make his parents angry. When he achieved his goal, he dropped me. He wasn't very kind about it either, let me know I had been an unwitting tool."

John instantly hated both men, though, as far as desiring to hurt people went, they were far back in line behind Carlton and Moriarty. The doctor cleared his throat. "So, you can't think of anyone else he might go after."

A muscle in Sherlock's cheek twitched. "Everyone else who's crossed me is currently serving time in prison. They should be safe enough. Of course, he'll want to eliminate you, but as a rival for my affection."

That was... unnerving, but there was the immediate problem of Sally Donovan to think about. John didn't like her, but he certainly didn't wish her dead. "What are the chances we'll find her alive?"

"Tony betrayed me, committed a type of treason, you could say. He received a traitor's death. Sally's only crime has been verbal scorn. It's entirely possible he has different plans for her." He shook his head. "But I can't deduce from a single point of data." Still his imagination ran wild. There were many things a psychopath might find suitable punishment for Donovan's harsh words. If Moriarty chose those methods... Sherlock shuddered. He knew all too well what it felt like to be tormented that way. They had to find her before that could happen. They had to...

"Sherlock." John took the trembling detective's gloved hand and held it. "Hey, come back to me. You're safe, whatever you're remembering, it's not happening. You're safe."

"I'm not... It's not... We can't let him do those things to her."

"We won't," the doctor said firmly. "We'll find her before anything happens." Christ, what a hell of a way for Sherlock to have learned empathy. John wished they could have gone on as before, instead, with him being Sherlock's moral compass and correcting him with a simple 'bit not good' now and again.

When they reached the flat, Sherlock bounded from the car. John already had some cash out and handed them to the cabbie, then rushed after his detective. They met Lestrade on the steps along with several yarders and a number of Mycroft's men.

"Where are the flowers?" the detective demanded immediately. At Greg's gesture, Sherlock stepped inside Sally's flat. There was a small bouquet just inside her door. He crouched and examined the bouquet. "Canterbury bell, yellow carnation, yellow hyacinth and petunia. He's planing to give her a warning about her disdain, jealousy and resentment of me. There's nothing here about death." He looked up at John ang Greg. "We may yet find her alive." Looking back at the bouquet, Sherlock noticed three feathers buried deep within the flowers - peacock feathers. "Remember the Howard case, Lestrade? We have to get to the murder site." He sprang to his feet. "We have to get there now."

* * *

Sally woke in darkness. She was groggy and disoriented, but was free to move. Feeling around her, she soon realised she was in a small confined space, probably a closet. She tried to call out, but found she couldn't move her tongue. In fact, sharp barbs dug into her tongue from both top and bottom. The fog started to clear from her mind at the pain. Reaching up, Donovan found bands of metal wrapped around her head holding whatever it was that grasped her tongue in place. In blind panic, she began to beat at the walls with her fists.


	43. Chapter 43

Greg grabbed Sherlock's arm. "Wait. Look at John. He's had all he can take for one day."

The detective bit his lip and really observed John. His coat was hanging loosely from his right shoulder, that arm in a sling, and he looked pale and drawn. There were dark circles under his eyes. John obviously needed rest, not to be running about London.

Gloved hands flying to dark curls, Sherlock began pacing madly. He didn't want to let the doctor out of his sight, not with Moriarty's clear jealousy of the man, but he needed to go with the DI. Sally might not be at the old Howard home. They could simply be following the first of many clues.

Anthea appeared, seemingly from nowhere. "Gentlemen, I'll be happy to take Doctor Watson home. Rest assured he will remain under a guard detail."

Wanting to argue, the detective started to say something, but John sagged in visible relief. "Thank you, Anthea." He turned to Sherlock. "For fucks sake, please be careful and listen to Greg. And Greg, watch out for him. You know he's an idiot."

"Of course I will." Greg shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at Anthea, jerking his head to the side. She took the hint and walked with him, giving the other two men a modicum of privacy.

"Sherlock, are you up to this? Will you be okay?" John couldn't keep the concern out of his voice.

The detective nodded. "I have to be, don't I?" He longed for reassuring contact, but there were people watching so he settled for taking John's hand in his own gloved one and squeezing. "I'll be fine." He wouldn't listen to the doubts in his head. He would be the old Sherlock, the Sherlock before the Shard. Having made that decision, he spun on his heel and swept from the room, calling out, "Come along, Lestrade!"

John walked towards the front door, meeting Anthea halfway there. Out on the pavement, she opened the door to the waiting black sedan. The doctor was only mildly surprised to find Mycroft already sitting in the back seat. Anthea closed the door and got in the front passenger seat.

Letting his head fall back against the chair John closed his eyes. "What's happened Mycroft? Just come out and say it. I'm too tired to have to think."

"It's not what's happened so much as what we may wish to allow to happen, John." Mycroft's tone was deadly serious. "I've spoken to Gregory and we are of one mind about this. The question is how do you feel about it?"

John raised his head and looked at the other man. "How do I feel about what?"

"If Sherlock finds Carlton before Moriarty does, the man will be arrested, _possibly_ convicted and he _may_ serve time in prison. If Moriarty finds him first..." The government official let his words trail off and allowed John time to think just what they implied.

The doctor took a deep breath, then let it out. "Are you suggesting we let Moriarty kidnap Carlton, torture him and kill him?"

Mycroft shifted his grip on the handle of his umbrella. "I don't believe I said any such thing. However, would it be so bad if it were to happen?"

"It would be... I only regret I wouldn't be there to witness it," John said with conviction. It was the conviction of a man who had seen his best friend, the love of his life, beaten, bloody and broken.

* * *

Even as several cars came sliding to a stop at the old battered house, Sherlock was shaking his head. "I don't like this, Lestrade. It's too simple, too obvious. It's either a trap or a distraction."

"Yeah." Greg reached under his seat for the gun that he didn't 'offically' have. Mycroft had given it to him just in case. "Let Mycroft's men go in first, yeah?" he said as he climbed out of the car.

Sherlock joined him. Leaning on it, he watched as six men enter the modern day ruins. His fingers drummed and he shifted restlessly. It should be him going in there first. He was the one that was supposed to run into danger.

"Sherlock!" Greg yelled as the detective took off running. "Of all the stupid..." He ran as fast as he could after him.

Inside the second bedroom, two of the men stood, facing a closed door. The other men were checking the rest of the house. From inside the closet came pounding and inhuman like sounds. Sherlock had his hand on the doorknob. Just as the DI called out, "Wait!" Sherlock opened the door and Sally Donovan fell out.

She was clearly panicked. Sherlock helped her to her knees and took her gently in his arms and rocked her. "Sh, sh. Sally, it's okay. We've found you. Lestrade's here. You're safe. We'll get this thing off of you." The entire time he spoke, he smoothed her hair and tried to exude a sense of safety. He tried to be John, to do what John would do. What John had done for him. It seemed to work, because, soon, Sally calmed down and quit clutching at him. He leaned back and gave her a wavering smile. "There. Go with Lestrade." He helped her up. As soon as the DI led her from the room, Sherlock examined the closet, expecting to find something, a letter, flowers, some sort of clue, but there was nothing. That disturbed him more than he wanted to admit.


	44. Chapter 44

Sherlock fretted. After Donovan had been seen to, he had examined every inch of the old Howard home. The only thing of note was that the door to the closet where she had been held had been reinforced. There had been no possibility for her breaking out on her own.

It had been too easy, too straight forward. The detective was certain he was missing something at the very least, or being distracted at the worst. Sherlock pulled out his mobile and dialled John. After only two rings, the doctor answered. "John, where are you?"

"I'm at the flat. Why?" John's tired frown was almost audible over the connection.

"Something's not right." Sherlock turned and surveyed the room again, ignoring the presence of the others. He lurched as the room shook from a distant blast. Pocketing his phone, he took off at a run. There was a large plume of smoke evident once he had got outside. The detective ran in that direction, ignoring Lestrade's shouts. The explosion couldn't have been more than three blocks away.

A small crowd had gathered across from the smouldering remains of a house. Sherlock walked up to a group of three, putting on his best concerned citizen face. "I hope no one was at home."

A woman, blonde, shook her head, her hand shooting to her mouth. "Thank Heaven, no. Mr. Carlton has been out of town for the last few weeks."

"Yeah," a dark haired man agreed. "I can't imagine what it'll be like for Ken to come home to this." He shook his head in sympathy for the businessman.

Greg came trotting up. He leaned over, hands resting on his knees as he fought to catch his breath. "Fucking hell, Sherlock! You can't just run off like that."

The detective jerked his head towards the smouldering ruins of a house. "It belongs to Carlton and now we have a first name, Ken, likely short for Kenneth. Get on the phone with the Yard and see what you have on him." Sirens sounded in the distance as he started to dial Mycroft.

It was then that the Lestrade's phone rang. Greg answered it, "Lestrade." As he listened, his face grew even more grim.

Sherlock watched him closely, reading every minute change in his expression. The moment Greg rang off, the detective hit him with his deduction. "There have been more explosions, Lestrade. I'll need the addresses."

"How could you possibly... Yeah." Lestrade ran a hand through his silver hair. "Two warehouses and an office. All three of which were luckily deserted."

"And all three of which can be traced back to Carlton."

"We don't know that."

"Yet. Send me those addresses, Lestrade." Sherlock started walking, his had already raised a hand to hail a cab. This time, it was one of Mycroft's cars that responded. He didn't even blink, but got in and directed the driver to take him to Baker Street.

* * *

By the time he had reached 221, things had fallen into place. Kenneth Glenn Carlton was the leader of a small ring of drugs/arms/human traffickers that Sherlock had stumbled across just before his own kidnapping. He hadn't even deduced what he had brushed up agaist with that single shipment of weapons. He'd never had the chance.

The detective climbed out of Mycroft's car, ignoring the ever present security detail that trailed him in the shadows. He climbed the steps and activated the biometric lock, then entered 221. As he climbed the seventeen steps to the flat, he rearranged everything he knew about Carlton in his Mind Palace. He would also need to reorganise the crime wall. With those things done, he would surely be able to locate Carlton before Moriarty could.

"Oh, thank God." John gave Sherlock a one armed hug. "I've been worried about you. I saw the explosions on the news."

"Mycroft or Lestrade would have let you know if anything had gone wrong." Sherlock shrugged off his coat and hung it up, his eyes already on the crime wall. He walked over to it and started moving things around, making room for the new notes he would be adding about the explosions and Carlton's crime ring.

The detective gave a start when John's hand fell on his shoulder and turned him around. He glared at the doctor. "What?"

"I said, is Sally okay?"

Sherlock's irritation fled as suddenly as it had flared up. He ran his gloved hands through his hair as he made an apologetic face. "I'm sorry, John. I was thinking. I didn't hear you. She'll be fine." He thought of her trapped in that dark closet with the scold's bridal locked in place. "She may have a few nightmares for a while, but-" Sherlock drifted off. Nightmares were something they both understood. Giving himself a shake, he went to the desk and picked up a pad of post it notes and a pen. "I need to update the crime wall. The explosions were all connected to Carlton. I know I can figure out where he is. I have to."

John knew he had to divert him. "Love, how long have you been awake?"

"Irrelevant."

"No. It's not." John took the detective by the hand. "You know what happens if you don't get enough sleep. The nightmares come on full force and then you can't sleep and you can't think. It's not worth it." The doctor gave his hand a squeeze. "Come to bed, just for a few hours. That's all I ask. When you get up, you can work to your heart's content. I'll keep the tea and biscuits coming."

The detective gave the crime wall one last look, then he nodded, his shoulders slumping. "If you'll sleep with me. After what happened with Sally..." He thought of her being locked in the dark closet again. "I'm not so certain I won't have a nightmare anyway."

"Of course." The doctor turned off the lights and led Sherlock to their room. If the detective could bring himself to ask for comfort, John wouldn't deny him. He'd never deny him comfort. Never.


	45. Chapter 45

_Sherlock was cold and couldn't see. The thin line of light coming in beneath a door was pale and provided very little illumination. He had no recollection of how he had come to be here or even where here was. The worst thing wasn't the chill or the not knowing, it was the darkness. A darkness reminiscent of his cell in his Mind Palace. Sherlock pushed that thought away and, with determination, he explored the space around him._

_To the detective's dismay, he found that he was being held in a small closet, no more than four feet by three. He tried forcing the door open, but there was no give in it whatsoever. As the chill settled into his bones, Sherlock curled up in a corner, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Hopefully John would find him soon. Or Lestrade. Or even bloody Mycroft. He was truly desperate if he could contemplate rescue by Mycroft with something akin to cheer._

_There was a muffled sound from the far corner of the closet. Impossible. Sherlock was locked in the closet alone. The sound came again. It was a distinctly female and familiar sound of distress. The detective uncurled from his tight ball and, hand stretched out before him, crawled across the small space. His hand encountered another body, eliciting a sound of protest. Immediately, the detective knew who it had to be - Sally Donovan._

_"Sally, it's me, Sherlock. I won't hurt you." The Sergeant flew into his arms and he made tentative, comforting sounds. The detective ran his hands through her longish hair, growling when he encountered the scold's bridle. Though he knew it was impossible, he tried to remove it, his fingers running over harsh metal lines. Surprisingly, he found a metal clasp and unfastened it. The device fell away from Donovan's hair and he removed it gently from her head and mouth. As he tossed it aside, Sally breathed her thanks. It started out as her voice, but it ended as John's._

_"John?" Sherlock asked, even more confused._

_"Yeah." The doctor's breathing was laboured and thin, full of pain. "Is Greg coming? Tell me you called for backup."_

_"I... Why?" Sherlock fumbled until he could cup John's cheeks in his gloveless hands. "What's wrong?" He could feel that the doctor was trembling and his skin felt cold, clammy._

_"The fucker shot me in the arm." John leaned forward, resting his weight on the detective. "It's not good, Sherlock. Really, really not good."_

_"I'll get us out of here." Sherlock stood, prepared to take on the door again. He'd break the damned thing down, this time. He had to for John's sake. Only, there wasn't a door, at least not one that was obvious._

_They weren't in the closet anymore. The darkness had become far too absolute for that. They were locked in the dark cell in his Mind Palace. He and very much Not Mind Palace John. John who was shot and bleeding would die. They were trapped. John would die and there would be no one to free Sherlock from this small dark place in his Mind Palace._

_John Would die._

_JOHN would DIE._

_Sherlock knelt and crawled to the doctor and took him in his arms. "Don't you dare die, John Watson." He would keep John alive by willpower alone._

_"Don't have much choice," the doctor wheezed, already far too weak, far too fast... far, far too fast. "Love you 'Lock." John breathed out his last breath and went limp in Sherlock's arms._

_The detective screamed. He raged. He shook John's limp form, trying to elicit a response._

The world went white as Sherlock was blinded by a bright light and a firm hand shook him by the shoulder. It took him a full minute to register the words that were being spoken to him in John's voice.

"-ust a dream. It was just a dream. You're safe. I'm safe. We're at Baker Street. It was ju-"

John's words were cut off as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him. The detective buried his nose at the juncture of John's neck and inhaled deeply, taking in his reassuring scent. The doctor wasn't dead. He was very much alive.

Sherlock pulled back and started peppering John's face with kisses. He kissed the doctor's forehead, each eyelid. "You're alive." His right cheek. His left. "You're safe." He kissed John's lips, his chin. "My heart is alive and safe." He kissed along the doctor's jawline. "My God, John. I love you more than life itself."

"Sherlock-"

The detective used his teeth to pull off his gloves one at a time, then he ran his hands over John's body. He rested one at the doctor's hip and the other at his shoulder. "Please, John. I need to know that we're both alive. I need to feel it in the most primal way possible. Do you want that too?"

"God, yes, but... Wouldn't it work better if we got undressed?" John gave him a slightly worried smile as he reached towards Sherlock's trousers. They had tumbled into bed earlier fully clothed. "Are you certain this is what you want?"

"Yes." He was emphatic. "Though I should probably shower," Sherlock sighed. "We both should after the crime scenes we've been at." He looked fiercely disappointed and held onto the doctor tightly. 

John cupped his face with a hand and kissed him on the cheek. "What we may lack in spontaneity, I promise to make up to you with meticulous care. Alright?"

Sherlock's smile came on full force. "I'll hold you to that, John Hamish Watson. I need all consuming, life affirming sex and I intend to have it. Life is racing by us, John. We've been letting it slip through our fingers. I won't allow it anymore."


	46. Chapter 46

John showered first, then let Sherlock take possession of the loo. While the detective showered, John managed to change the bedclothes using his good arm. He was rather proud of himself. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out the lube from the bedside table. This was something the doctor had been thinking about a lot - bottoming for Sherlock. He thought this might be the right time to try it. They couldn't get much closer to one another than that.

Sherlock walked in. When he saw what John was holding, he froze.

"It's for you to use on me," the doctor explained quickly. "If you'd like to do that, top me, that is."

Slowly, Sherlock's eyes rose to meet John's. His cheeks were rosy from the heat of the water and something more. "I don't know. Maybe." He licked his lips as he crossed the room and sat on the freshly made bed. "You changed the sheets."

"They were rather rank." John set the tube of lube aside, then reached out and brushed his fingers through the detective's damp curls. "I'm getting good at managing with just one arm."

Sherlock turned his head and kissed the doctor's palm. "Just in time for the sling to come off in a few days." He scooted closer to John and wrapped his arms around him. "Hold me, please."

The doctor held onto him tight, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. After a few minutes of this, John turned his head towards the detective's neck and started kissing him lightly, just soft, dry presses of his lips at first. Sherlock responded with a sigh, then pleased little hums of pleasure as his own hand came up to run through John's short blond hair.

The doctor's kisses grew more impassioned and his mouth opened, his tongue finding its way to the sensitive spot behind Sherlock's ear. The detective moaned and shivered, pushing John away just enough that he could meet his mouth with his own. It flashed through Sherlock's mind that maybe he should be panicking, but he felt calm. No, that was definitely the wrong word. He felt aroused. John was being thoughtful and careful to avoid his triggers. He had to learn to trust John with this. He had to learn to trust himself.

Sherlock reached between them and grasped John's cock. He held it lightly, tentatively, just feeling its soft, smooth texture. He smiled when the doctor groaned into his mouth.

"God, that's such a tease," John said breathless. The detective started to let go. "No, don't. I like it. Feels nice, feather soft. Ahhhh, fuck." Sherlock had ran his thumb lightly over his cock head.

"I think, if you're certain, I'd like to try topping." Sherlock was proud of himself, his voice barely shook.

"Okay." John pulled back. "Do you want to prepare me or do you want me to do it?"

The detective's mouth fell open, then he snapped it shut and swallowed. "I've never... I mean, I have theoretical knowledge, of course." None of Carlton's cronies had bothered with preparing him before they raped him. He shoved that thought ruthlessly aside. "But I'd like to try. Do you... can you talk me through it? I don't want to hurt you." He never wanted to hurt John.

John lay back on the bed, his hand flailing about for the tube on the unit. When he found it, he tossed it to Sherlock. "First of all, use lots of lube. More than you think you need. Really get your fingers slick and messy." He smiled at the detective encouragingly.

Cautiously, Sherlock did as instructed. He looked at the glistening substance on his fingers, rubbed them together, then brought his fingers to his mouth and tasted it. "Yuck."

The doctor laughed. "They do make a flavoured variety that tastes better. I swear. Now just run your fingers along my perineum and maybe play with my bollocks a bit while you're at it. Take your time." John let out a happy sigh as Sherlock complied. "Yeah, just like that." He relaxed back against the bed, his legs bent and knees splayed. John could feel Sherlock's worried focus on him. "Relax, Love, relax. I'm not grading you on this. When you're ready, start circling my entrance with your index finger, just use light pressure. Circle it gently, pressing in a little until the muscle relaxes and pulls your finger in."

Sherlock was still watching intently, but from interest, not worry. When his finger disappeared into John he made a little pleased sound that matched the doctor's own gasp. "Now what?"

"Give me a moment." John shifted just a bit. "Alright, move it around a bit. Let me get used to it." After a moment, he talked Sherlock through adding a second finger, then a third. "Alright. That should do it. Now get the lube and slick up your cock just like you did your hand."

After Sherlock had done so, he knelt over John. "Are you sure you want this? You won't let me hurt you?"

"I'm certain." John grasped the detective's slick cock and lined it up with his entrance. "Just go slow. If I need you to stop, I'll tell you, I promise."

The detective nodded and pushed in ever so slowly. He would never, never forgive himself if he hurt John. The doctor gasped and Sherlock froze.

"No, it's good. Very good. Keep going."

Reassured, Sherlock slid into the doctor inch by inch until he was fully seated. It felt so good being inside John. It felt like they were one unit - one being. He started moving, pulling out and rocking gently back into the doctor. John's hands came up and caressed his face.

"I've got to Sherlock, Love. Oh, oh, ah..." John's eyes closed for a moment before popping back open. "I've got you." He wiped tears from Sherlock's face.

When they both came, it was in silence, their bodies tangled in one another. John had been careful to keep his hands above Sherlock's waist with the exception of guiding his cock into him. Now they were collapsed in a heap of post coital bliss, cuddling in the mess and not caring one bit. It was a quiet healing moment and neither of them wanted it to end.


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genital mutilation of an evil person and that character's death.

Carlton sat on a bench in the park with the appearance of calm, but he was anything but calm. There had only been one of his contacts that had been willing to help him. The rest had shunned him the moment word had hit the streets that Moriarty had marked him as a dead man. It was completely ridiculous. Carlton had avoided crossing James Moriarty's network. He had always been respectful of the man. How had he been supposed to know that the consulting criminal had some twisted crush on Sherlock Holmes?

Kenneth Carlton looked around himself nervously, willing his contact to arrive. The woman was bringing cash and the necessary identification papers to get him out of the country without him coming to Moriarty's attention.

A dark haired man wearing a fine Brooks Brothers suit and carrying a strange bouquet of flowers walked up and sat on the bench to Carlton's right. The man looked down at the bouquet sadly. "The heart's a strange thing." He looked at a young couple stood just across the pathway, busy exchanging a very impassioned kiss. Their hands were wandering all over one another's body. "It burns equally hot with passion as with hate."

Carlton started to stand and flee, but a hand on his left shoulder forced him to remain in his seat. He looked around at the large thug that held him there. The man held a gun in his free hand and had it aimed at him. Carlton looked back around at the other nan in panic.

"You're associate sold you out. It was a wise move on her part. Unless you want my friend to pull the trigger, you'll walk with us to my car and we'll go for a nice ride." Moriarty gave him a chilling smile. "Of course, it's up to you. Live or die. Take your pick." Actually it was die or die, but why be picky?

"I'll go with you," Carlton squeaked out.

"Excellent choice." Moriarty stood, dropping his bouquet of Cyclamen, Cypress, Petunia, Poppy and Thistle to the ground to be found later... or not. He really didn't care.

The thug pulled Carlton to his feet and led him from the park.

* * *

Carlton woke, kneeling, his wrists hanging from the ceiling by a chain. He didn't remember being drugged. It must have happened in the car.

Jim was standing behind his victim and poked him in the back, knocking him off balance. "Hello Kenny. I'm so glad you're awake." He made a simple gesture and his henchman started cranking the chain, pulling Carlton up and onto his feet.

Soon enough, Carlton was balanced on the balls of his feet, the position was almost impossible to maintain. He wondered how long he could hold it before exhaution overtook him and he couldn't support himself. He knew it would be a hideous way to die - positional asphixiation.

Moriarty began pacing around the helpless man, gesturing around the room. "I've thought long and hard about this, Kenny. I had a game all set to play. My pieces were on the board, ready to move. It was going to be the game to end all games. The Great Game." He stopped in front of Carlton and looked him in the eyes. "But you, a petty arms dealer and incompetent trafficker got in the way of all that." He paused "YOU BROKE MY PLAYTHING!" Moriarty breathed hard for a moment, his face screwed up in fury, then he calmed himself. "Look around you at all my torture devices. They're authentic, from medieval times. I thought of using them on you." He walked over to a table and brought over a very sharp knife. "But I've changed my mind. I'm going to keep things simple." He looked around." Seb." The thug walked over and placed the barrel of his gun at Carlton's temple.

With quick efficiency, Moriarty cut open Carlton's trousers and pants. He grabbed the man's cock and, with a vicious, predatory grin, sliced it off. Carlton screamed, allowing Jim to shove it down his throat.

Moriarty, bloody, looked at the camera in the corner that had caught everything and waved.


	48. Chapter 48

Sherlock's phone buzzed where it sat on the bedside table. John grunted and pulled a pillow over his head. A few moments later, his own phone began to ring and he moaned. He reached an arm out and searched for the offending item blindly. Putting it to his ear as he pressed the green button, the doctor said groggily, "Hello."

Mycroft's voice came back, clearly worried, "Where's Sherlock?"

Lifting his head and dislodging the pillow, John saw that he was alone in bed. "Bollocks!" As he climbed from bed and headed towards the living room, he asked, "Why, what's happened?"

"Moriarty moved faster than anticipated. Carlton is already dead." Mycroft's voice was strained. "There's video. I can only assume that he's..."

John dropped the phone at the sight of a very pale Sherlock staring at his laptop screen, his gaze locked on whatever it was that he saw. "Sherlock? Sherlock, what are you watching?"

The detective didn't hear him. He was watching Carlton's death on a loop, not because he was fascinated by it, but because he couldn't move to stop it. It was the bit at the end that held him in place - Moriarty turning to wave with a bloody hand and a cold reptilian smile.

When John saw what was on the screen, he slammed the laptop shut, causing Sherlock to flinch. "Alright. Now you know. Your brother just called to tell us." He could see that the detective was still in a daze, so he sat on the sofa next to him. "Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock's lip curled into an ugly snarl. "I wanted to kill him. It was my RIGHT!" He threw the laptop across the room, then leapt to his feet and began pacing. "I should have worked harder. I should have found him first." He kicked a stack of books as he passed by it.

This display of rage caught John completely off guard, though he supposed it shouldn't have. Now he understood - Mycroft hadn't merely been trying to seek an end to Carlton, he had been trying to keep Sherlock from being the one to bring it about. "Try to calm down."

"I wasted time having sex with you. If I hadn't, I might have been the one to find him. I could have sliced the bastard's throat. Now Moriarty thinks he's given me a gift. I never asked him to do it. I wanted to. Me!"

Greg came crashing through the living room door, breathing heavily. "Mycroft's on his way," he told John.

"Oh, how delightful. Did my brother watch as dear Jim killed him? Did he enjoy it? Perhaps he watched it with a glass of wine. And you, Greg, did you watch it with him? You must have all known how I felt. Maybe John only had sex with me as a distraction."

That was enough. The doctor grabbed Sherlock by the arms and shook him until he shut up. "You complete arse. Of course I didn't know what was happening. Now sit down." He guided him to his chair and pushed the detective down into it. "Keep your mouth shut for a change and give Greg a chance to explain."

Lestrade shook his head. "Moriarty was bragging, no surprise there. He sent Sherlock the video as a gift." He made a face as if tasting something foul. "He also sent a copy to Mycroft to taunt him. That message was fairly clear - Mycroft can't stop him. I imagine he sent a copy to John as well as a warning." He gave the doctor a level look. "He intends you to be next or so Mycroft thinks. You're the only thing standing between Moriarty and Sherlock as far as he is concerned." The DI shifted his gaze back to the still furious detective. "So, no, we didn't know what was happening last night."

"But if we had, we would have kept it from you," Mycroft announced from the doorway of the flat where he had appeared, "and nothing would have changed, Sherlock. The three of us intend to protect you from yourself."

The detective leapt to his feet. "What gives any of you the right?!"

Mycroft gave him a soft look. "The fact that we care about you. John loves you. I love you. Greg, as a friend, loves you. None of us will ever be able to stop." Towards the end, his voice had started shaking. The DI stepped close to his side and took his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Sherlock's fury didn't lessen, but it was no longer directed at the three men in the room. It surged through him, threatening to tear him apart. He closed his eyes and summoned up the desert where he had faced his fear. Unlike the great storm his fear had manifested as, his rage swirled around him in little eddies of biting sand. The detective sank to the ground and let the vortices mingle with one another in a dance of anger. The came together, then separated, not feeding off one another, but diminishing each other's strength until they died away into nothingness. He opened his eyes and collapsed into his chair, exhausted.

Running his gloved hands through his curls he looked from Greg to Mycroft noting their joined hands, but not commenting on it. There would be time for that later. "I presume you've found where the murder occurred?" His voice held considerable less venom. He had to think of John now.

"Yes, as well as the site where Carlton was abducted." Mycroft started to relax, realising the moment for a Sherlockian temper tantrum had passed. "There were flowers, as per Moriarty's usual M.O."

"What were they?" the detective asked impatiently.

His brother responded, "Cyclamen, Cypress, Petunia, Poppy and Thistle."

Sherlock stood and started pacing. "Good bye, death, anger, oblivion and retaliation. Nothing necessarily pertaining to John, so irrelevant." He stopped and looked at the doctor, but spoke to Greg and Mycroft. "I need to see the crime scene. There may be clues as to his next move. I have to see it to protect John."


	49. Chapter 49

Sherlock, after having examined Moriarty's torture chamber thoroughly, ripped off his nitrile gloves angrily, then he pulled on his black leather gloves. "He meant for this place to be found, obviously." The blood had been carefully tracked in copious amounts from the murder scene out onto the pathway where it would be noted by passersby. "There's nothing here Moriarty doesn't want me to see." He shifted his gaze to John, knowing the little tableau had really been intended for the doctor. Sherlock knew Moriarty had wanted to strike terror into the heart of John. More the fool, he. All the man had done was anger the ex-army doctor and brought out his fierce protectiveness. "We're going home."

The ride back to the flat was quiet. Neither man spoke a word. The only communication between them was John's hand clenched tight in the detective's own gloved one. At the flat, Sherlock climbed out of the car (one of Mycroft's this time), followed closely by John. The detective stepped up and activated the biometric lock. They climbed up the stairs. At the ninth step, Sherlock held out his hand, stopping the doctor and cautioning for silence. After a moment, he waved John back down the stairs.

Together they started to back their way down the stairs, only to be met by a burly man stepping out of 221A. "Sorry boys, but my boss wants to see you." He gestured with his gun. "Up the stairs."

John followed Sherlock up the stairs. This should be impossible. Mrs. Hudson wasn't there to let anyone into 221. They had sent her away some time ago for her own safety. How had anyone got passed Mycroft's security system, let alone the security detail outside? They stepped into their flat.

Moriarty was sitting in Sherlock's chair, leaning back and legs stretched out before him. "Hello, Shezza. Johnny Boy. Welcome." He spread his arm in a welcoming gesture to indicate the whole of the flat.

"Jim," Sherlock said coolly as he looked around the living room. Seeing nothing out of place, he took a close look at Moriarty. There was a bit of insulation clinging to his suit just at his right hip. The detective smiled. "I see you came down through the attic. Used the vent, I suppose, after crossing over to our building via rooftop. I'll have to berate Mycroft for the oversight."

"That, Shezza, is what first caught my attention - your mind. There was also your reputation as a sociopath. You didn't care about anyone." Jim's lip curled up and he turned his cold gaze on John. "Seb, encourage the doctor to have a seat."

John let himself be shoved roughly onto the sofa. He didn't have much choice in the matter, what with the gun shoved in his face. While in the army, he had been trained to shoot with his right hand, as was common practice. Hopefully, since both Seb and Jim doubtless knew that, they would discount him as a danger since his right arm was in a sling. They had no way to know he was as good a shot with his dominate left hand as with his right. All he had to do was get the gun from his waistband without getting caught.

"Now, Shezza, let's talk about the two of us." Moriarty leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "I've shown you what I'm capable of, genius to genius." He tipped his head to the side, cracking his neck loudly. "Well, that's not entirely true. I can do so much more. I had grand plans, a game to end all games. You would have enjoyed it, I think. Now, though, I want you all for myself. You can blame Carlton for that." He beckoned Sherlock with a single finger. "Come here Shezza."

"No!" John shouted, despite the gun being held in his face.

"If you don't want him dead right this minute, you will come here now." Moriarty sat back and spread his thighs, patting the leather between his legs.

Hesitantly, Sherlock took a step forward, then another. He kept moving until he stood between Moriarty's legs.

"Kneel." Jim ordered. The moment the detective complied, Moriarty grabbed him by the curls and tilted his head back. He held up his other hand in front of Sherlock's face. "Open up." Jim shoved his fingers into the detective's mouth and smiled wickedly when he complied.

It was the only way to keep John safe, doing this. Sherlock could feel tears coming to his eyes and his chest ached. He turned his awareness inward and went on autopilot.

John was crying too. He knew Moriarty's demands would only get worse. He refused to be the leverage used to force Sherlock's compliance. If he died taking out Seb and Moriarty, so be it. It would be a small price to pay to spare Sherlock this. John glanced at Seb. The man was watching as Jim toyed with the detective. The doctor eased his gun out of his waistband slowly, ever so slowly and aimed it at Seb. He pulled the trigger as he yelled, "Vatican Cameos!"

Sherlock threw himself back and to the side, acting on long ingrained behaviour. The moment John had a clear shot, he sighted Moriarty and pulled the trigger, hitting him between the eyes. Jim fell back over the chair, caught in the act of standing.

John paused momentarily to make sure both Seb and Jim were indeed dead. There was no question about it, considering where John had hit them. He flew to Sherlock's side. The detective had curled up into a ball and was pulling his hair with his gloved hands.

"Sherlock. Look at me. It's John. Just John." The doctor wanted to hug Sherlock to his chest, but didn't dare, not in the state the detective was in. "It's me, John. Come on."

The detective finally looked up at John, his eyes going from unfocused to focused painfully slowly. "John?" He looked at him a moment longer, then grabbed the doctor and held on as if his very life depended on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim went so soon, I know, but that's how my muse said it happened.


	50. Chapter 50

At the sound of the downstairs door opening, John reached for his gun and levelled it at the living room door. Luckily for the first man through the door, the doctor recognised him as one of Mycroft's men, one of the few whose biometric information was entered in the security system. John lowered his gun. "We've not been injured, but those two are quite dead." Sherlock shuddered in his arms. "Get Mycroft here."

"He's already on his way, Doctor Watson." The man looked around the bloody scene then at Sherlock and John. "Perhaps it would be best if you both waited downstairs. Just let us clear Mrs. Hudson's flat, then you can relocate."

That sounded more than good to John. The shivering detective in his arms was a far cry from the broken thing Carton's men had left him with weeks ago, but he wasn't okay either. The sooner they could get away from the body of that devil Moriarty, the better.

After what seemed an eternity, 221A was given the all clear. The doctor helped Sherlock to his feet and they made their way downstairs and to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table. One of Mycroft's men had even made them tea which John sipped, but Sherlock merely held his as his shudders subsided.

John felt far more relieved than he ever thought he would when he saw Mycroft standing in the kitchen doorway, Greg just behind him. "Sherlock, Love, your brother and Greg are here."

The detective's grip tightened on his mug, then he took a long drink of tea. He set the mug down and turned around to face the newcomers. "We're alright, as I'm sure your men told you." Sherlock reached blindly for John's hand. "And I will be alright," he said, voice full of determination. There would be more of the hateful nightmares to be sure, but he had John and they were safe now. All he needed was time. And John. Always John.

Mycroft nodded. He looked towards the flat above them. "It, will of course, take a few days to clean away all traces of the unpleasantness that occurred upstairs. If you so wish, you may both stay with us until B has been returned to its normal state of chaos." He smiled to soften his words. "Please. It would make us happy."

John frowned, wondering who 'us' was.

"He means himself and Greg," Sherlock clarified. "We would have the guest suite to ourselves?"

"Entirely," his brother assured him. Mycroft held his breath. Sherlock hadn't stayed with him voluntarily since, well, never. Had their relationship healed enough for him to do so now?

"John, I think it would be an excellent idea." Sherlock held onto the doctor's hand tightly. "It might give me time to work through certain... things."

The doctor nodded. "Then Mycroft's it is. And Greg's," he added. He'd take time to be stunned over that later. Right now, he was too worried about Sherlock.

* * *

Mycroft and Greg escorted John and Sherlock to the guest suite. It was far larger than the doctor had imagined. In fact, it was larger than the entire Baker Street flat.

The first thing Sherlock had wanted to do upon arrival was to get a shower, but he had hesitated, only agreeing to it when John had promised he would stay in the suite and not go exploring Mycroft's house. The other two men had stayed, ostensibly to keep the doctor company, but they all knew it was so they could talk to John alone.

"So, what happened, John?" It was Greg who got around to asking first.

The doctor rubbed his brow. "We've already told you how they came in through the attic and caught us off guard. It's just a good thing they didn't know I had a gun or that I could shoot left handed."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes as he scrutinised John. "But how did you get the opportunity to draw your gun? That seems highly unlikely." John's eyes drifted towards the hall and the loo where Sherlock was showering. That was enough for the elder Holmes. "I see. Moriarty was doing something to my brother. What?" His voice was strained and he dreaded the answer.

"It barely got started before Moran became distracted and I acted." John took a deep, calming breath. "It could have got a lot worse, but... It was triggering enough as it was. I expect the nightmares to be more frequent for a while."

Greg frowned. "What did Mori..."

"It doesn't matter and it's not really either of your business. Moriarty's dead. Moran's dead. Carlton's dead. Sherlock's safe from that kind of shit. Let's look towards the future and Sherlock getting better."

Three heads turned as the detective stepped out of the loo, looking much more himself. He had put on a clean suit and was towel drying his hair with gloved hands. He walked down the hall towards where the other three men were sat. "Your turn, John. There's still a bit of blood spatter..." He pointed at various places on the doctor's person. "The sooner you get clean, the sooner you can sit with me."

John hesitated, but Sherlock sounded calm enough. Besides, Mycroft and Greg were there if they were needed. He stood and headed to the loo to clean up, resolving to take as little time as necessary.

The detective took John's now vacated seat. He let his eyes fall shut for a moment, then opened them to face Mycroft's and Greg's questioning stares. "I promise you I haven't been set back weeks, I'm not terrified, and I have no intention of hiding from the world." All of that was true and yet... "However, I do need a bit more time before I'm ready to jump back into the fray. Perhaps a holiday with John. I don't know." He needed something to take the edge off. He didn't know what.

Mycroft reached towards Sherlock, then checked himself. "Whatever you need, baby brother, you shall have."


	51. Chapter 51

"Are you sure?" John asked, doubt clear in his tone.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't have suggested it if I weren't certain. "We've been here for over two weeks and you haven't left the house once. It's starting to grate on my nerves, John. Go ask Greg out to that horrid pub the two of you used to frequent. Have a night out. I'll be fine." Honestly, he needed a break from the doctor's mother henning, if just for a bit. He needed to decide if it was time to return to Baker Street and their life, lrave behind the sanctuary of his brother's home.

"Alright," John agreed reluctantly, but call me if you need me. I'll come right back."

The detective placed gloved hands on John's shoulders, turned him towards the door of the guest suite and shoved him through it. "Go."

As the door closed behind the doctor, Sherlock turned back towards the centre of the room. He caught his reflection in a mirror and froze. Slowly, the detective walked towards it, then he looked at his reflection, really looked at it. He looked like himself, the Sherlock of months ago, the one who had never broken into two selves and then had to be put back together by John.

John Watson. Sherlock smiled just thinking about him. He loved him more than he had ever thought possible. More remarkably, the doctor loved him in return. John had stayed by his side during his recovery, during the investigation and here at Mycroft's. He'd stay here as long as Sherlock, needed, to be sure, but the detective could tell he was getting restless. Sherlock was getting restless. No, he was getting bored.

The detective went in search of his brother to tell him it was time for him and John to take their leave.

* * *

Mycroft was sitting in his favourite chair reading over notes for a meeting he had to attend the next day. At the sound of Sherlock's entrance, he looked up and smiled. "Sherlock, do join me." He tossed his notes aside as he pulled off his reading glasses. After a moment, he added, "You look well."

"Mm. I was thinking John and I might leave tomorrow and return to Baker Street." Sherlock braced himself for his brother's insistence that he wasn't ready, that he needed more time, but it never came.

Mycroft gave him a sad smile. "I had hoped to spend some time with you, myself, but you and John have kept yourselves locked away these two weeks." He took a deep breath, then continued, "I don't want things to go back to the way they were before. I'd like to be more than a looming shadow in your life, catching glimpses of it only through Gregory."

With a great sigh of relief, the detective smiled. "Thank you." He chuckled at his brother's confused look. "Thank you for the sentiment and for not telling me it's too soon." Sherlock stood and paced the room. He was determined to say what he was thinking no matter how awkward he felt doing it. "I don't want to go back to that either, Mycroft. I'd like to... get to know you again, if that is agreeable. After all, if Greg can put up with you, surely I can." He stopped and looked at his brother seriously. "John and Greg will continue to need their pub nights, perhaps we should endeavour to see one another then."

"I'd... like that." Mycroft shifted in his chair. This whole conversation was making him uncomfortable, but he thought it would be worth it in the long run. He watched as his brother resumed his seat. "I believe you _are_ ready to resume your life."

"Hm. I'm in a better place than John was when he was invalided out of the army." He thought back to John's frequent nightmares and how they had slowly reduced in frequency until they were now almost non-existent. His own nightmares seemed to be taking that same path. Sherlock chuckled darkly. The last nightmate to occur in the guest suite had actually been John's, not the detective's. At least they understood one another and could provide needed comfort when the nightmares occured.

Mycroft leaned forward, biting his lip, then he shook his head and made himself relax back into his chair without saying what was on his mind. It would only be seen as interfering, after all.

Naturally Sherlock noticed. "Go ahead, Mycroft and say whatever it is you're thinking."

With a sigh, the government official began, "I do think you're ready to resume your life at Baker Street and I understand that means you'll wish to start taking cases again." Here he heaved a deep breath. "Please, Sherlock, may I ask Gregory to keep cases of a certain nature out of your domain for some time yet?"

The detective's knee began to bounce and he ran a gloved hand through his hair, but he didn't curl into a ball and he didn't get closed off or self-defensive. "I've given the issue some thought myself. Don't look so surprised Mycroft, I've grown up some since meeting John."

"I know you have," Mycroft agreed.

Sherlock continued. "I think your suggestion might be for the best. For now, not forever." He pointed a finger at his brother. "But if asked, it was entirely my idea."

"But of course." This time when Mycroft smiled, it was a true smile that was answered by one of Sherlock's own. "I'm glad that something good has come of all of this. You have John now. I'm happy for you."

"More sentiment, Mycroft?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow in mock disdain. "Of course, you understand about that now. You have Greg - your own goldfish."

"I believe I may have underrated the value of goldfish. We need them, don't we, brother-mine?"

"More than anything, Mycroft. More than anything."


	52. Epilogue

John woke at Baker Street, missing the feel of Sherlock's arms wrapped around him. It was a feeling he had become accustomed to over the last several months since they had moved back to the flat. The detective always took off his gloves at night so he could hold onto the doctor with nothing between their bare skin. In the mornings, he put them back on immediately to avoid any accidents that could cause a flashback.

Rolling over, the doctor smiled to see Sherlock sitting up in bed. John glanced up as he started to say good morning and froze. Sherlock was in his thinking pose, bare hands folded together and fingertips brushing his pink lips. The doctor daren't move, daren't even breathe. Seeing the detective like this once again was breathtaking. It was almost enough to make John cry. He was afraid that, if he broke the moment, Sherlock would fall into a panic attack.

With a flutter of eyelashes, Sherlock emerged from his Mind Palace. He must have felt John's eyes on him as he turned his head and looked down at the doctor. His face screwed up in concentration. "John, something is bothering you."

"N... No." The doctor's voice cracked. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "It's just..." With a heavy sigh, John reached out and took Sherlock's hands. "For a moment there, it was as if you had forgotten. You were in your thinking pose."

The detective looked at his hands which were now being held tight in John's own. "Ah." He pulled them free and held them out before him, studying them intently. Sherlock looked at his long pale fingers and the veins that stood out against pale skin. They were his hands. They were hands that John loved. In that way, they were John's hands, he reasoned, not his at all.

Ever so slowly, the detective brought one pale hand closer to the other, so close they were a whisper's breath apart, then the two hands touched. He reversed the thought process that had got him here. The hands were no longer John's, they were his again... and they were touching.

Sherlock couldn't look away from where his hands were pressed together, gloveless. He could feel his chest starting to heave, not from panic, but from joy. He could even feel his eyes starting to burn with unshed tears of happiness.

"Don't," John said, trying to pull Sherlocks hands apart. "Please."

The detective smiled at John. "It's alright. I'm fine. Look." He pulled his hands apart and put them back together again. Sherlock ran his fingers through his own hair. He hugged himself. Hesitantly, he brought his hand down and touched himself beneath his pyjama bottoms and pants.

John's worried look transformed first to shock, then to disbelief, then to pure, radiant joy. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and hugged him, letting the detective explore his own body, every inch of it, for as long as he needed.

When Sherlock was done, he twisted around and kissed John, then he pressed him back onto the bed, covering his body with his own. That morning, they made long, sweet, celebratory love to one another.

Sherlock still had issues and always would. John still had nightmares and a limp that came and went in times of stress. The important thing was they had each other. They were two halves of a whole and that was as it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to podfic or translate this or create a drawing based on it, go for it. Just please let me know and link back to my fic.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr.](http://shippingintothenight.tumblr.com)


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